Eagle's Fall
by CharNobyl
Summary: Shanxi becomes the first human world since Earth to be invaded by hostile aliens. Outnumbered and reeling, the GDI troops dig in for war, hoping their trenches will not become their graves. The First Contact War, with GDI replacing the Systems Alliance.
1. Chapter 1

**As unlikely that it is that anyone in the ME/C&C section hasn't already read _Renegade_, I cannot recommend it highly enough. This story takes place in the universe established by Peptuck, so credit for that goes to him while credit for the franchises go to Bioware/EA. For those of you unfamiliar with _Renegade_, there shouldn't be any problem with understanding this story. You'll get a timeline after this aside explaining the universe, and the events of this story happen a few decades before the events of _Renegade_. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Welcome, citizen! Access historical overview? YN**

**Please enter initial date: 1994**

**Loading...please wait...**

**1994: United States Congress begins, at behest of journalistic pressure, investigation of numerous defense contractors under federal employ. Results show multiple clients to have ties to the Brotherhood of Nod, a group known to be extremist, but little else is known at the time. **

**1995: Tiberium meteor strikes Earth, causing widespread destruction and beginning the tiberium infestation. The Brotherhood of Nod throws off the veil of secrecy and grows rapidly in power, augmenting its already formidable power by taking control of numerous military facilities abandoned during the meteor impact. On October 12, the United Nations Global Defense Act is passed unanimously, creating the Global Defense Initiative. **

**1999-2002: The First Tiberium War rages for three years as the Brotherhood of Nod attacks the Global Defense Initiative with the goal of uniting the third world under its pseudo-religion. The GDI deploys one of its newest weapons, the ion cannon, to great effect. **Nod experimentation with artificial intelligence culminates with the creation of the Computer Assisted Biologically Augmented Lifeform (CABAL). The prototype is heavily damaged in an ion strike.** Fighting concludes with the apparent death of Cain, the leader of Nod, in Sarajevo. **

**2009: Otani-Lincoln Laboratories receives its first contract with GDI, developing groundbreaking fabrication and production technology over the next two decades.**

**2014: First widespread deployment of newly reconfigured Electronic Video Agents (EVA), elevating it from a relatively simply data compiler to the level of artificial intelligence.**

**2025: The satellite station GDSS _Philadelphia_ is completed, becoming the primary command hub of GDI forces worldwide. **

**2030: Nod power returns under the leadership of Anton Slavik, and the Second Tiberium War begins in September after a broadcast made by Kane, revealing himself to be alive. The war, however, is ended by December, with the second 'death' of Kane. **

**2031: The Firestorm Crisis erupts, prompted by CABAL, lashing out even at his former Nod patrons. The threat of Earth becoming totally inhabitable due to tiberium growth is averted only by the discovery of the 'tacitus' data module, imparting valuable control and removal procedures to the GDI. CABAL is destroyed by an unprecedented united attack by GDI and Nod forces, beginning the hunt for the backup bunkers it had prepared worldwide. Anton Slavik is assassinated, and replaced by a Nod officer/demagogue known only as 'Marcion.'  
><strong>

**2043: GDI closes nearly 60% of its military facilities worldwide, citing minimal Nod activity and the cost of maintenance. The last bunker of the rogue AI CABAL is destroyed, permanently ending his threat. **

**2047: The Third Tiberium War begins when Nod militants destroy the GDSS _Philadelphia_ with a nuclear warhead. The retaliatory ion stroke against the so-called 'temple Prime' in Sarajevo ends in disaster as it ignites the liquid tiberium deposit beneath, causing a multiple-megaton explosion and transforming the surrounding area into a Red Zone. The detonation also serves to attract the extraterrestrial race known as the Scrin, who launch a global invasion of Earth. GDI forces successfully assaulted and destroyed the Scrin control node in Italy, crippling the Scrin forces. The aliens are driven form Earth within the year, and GDI declares victory. **

**2052: New Eden, the first Blue Zone to be reclaimed from a Yellow Zone using sonic technology, is unexpectedly consumed by the Northern European Tiberium Field. Reports begin to emerge worldwide of increased tiberium activity, and the ineffectiveness of proven countermeasures. GDI forces are driven from Red Zones by Nod-backed militia and the emergence of the cybernetic Marked of Kane. **

**2055: Virtually all GDI military might is withdrawn to Blue Zones to defend against attacks by Nod forces. Scientists are pressured more than ever to halt the spread of tiberium, and are able to slow the pace, albeit only slightly. **

**20%&/-/-/-/-/-/**

**/-/CODING ERROR/TERMINAL CORRUPTION DETECTED/**

**/-/REBOOTING AND RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC SOFTWARE/WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/%&**#######ulting in the first permanent settlement on Mars. Luna colonies further expand, occupying roughly 43% of its surface, providing further relief to the beleaguered citizens of Earth. **

**2142: Mars settlement grows rapidly, moving still more GDI citizens from Earth to the newly-colonized red planet. Faced with the prospect of escaping from the threat of tiberium, millions flee from Red and Yellow Zones to GDI-controlled Blue Zones. Nod morale and support plummet with the continued absence of their 'messiah' and the GDI's control of space flight. **

**2148: Human colonists on Mars discover a cache of ancient technology of unknown origin. It is decades, if not centuries, ahead of most GDI tech, and scientists race to reverse engineer these new technological wonders. Within the year, 'mass effect' fields are being explored, and GDI officials are optimistic that they may present some means of halting tiberium spread.**

****2149: One of Pluto's moons, Charon, is discovered to be a titanic piece of technology of similar origin to that which was found on Mars. Jon Grissom and his team become the first humans to travel by Mass Relay to the distant Arcturus System, nearly 36 light years away. ****

**2150: A colony is established on the newly discovered planet Shanxi. The settlement soon becomes Talruum, the capitol of what would quickly become a booming world. **

**2152: Using plans dating back to the Third Tiberium War, GDI developers create the first 'Shapeshifter' infantry weapon. The original designs were deemed unfeasible, but the new integration of mass effect technology swiftly made the new 'Werewolf' weapon system the standard for GDI infantry, allowing each man access to numerous weapon modules contained within a single frame. Similarly, infantry armor is upgraded, integrating the first 'kinetic barriers' into the GDI Marine Corp, and allowing for the jump packs normally too bulky and expensive for anyone besides Zone troopers and Commandos to become standard gear. **

**2155: June 5th is declared a national holiday as mass effect technology all but halts the spread of tiberium, rescuing the Blue Zones from consumption. Reinforcement efforts are immediately placed underway, and Director James Garcia launches the first GDI offensive military effort in nearly a century. What few Nod strongholds remain on Earth are destroyed by the empowered GDI war machine. With its two biggest foes effectively defeated, the GDI turns its attentions to space and expansion.**

**2157: A small exploration fleet attempts to reactivate a dormant Mass Relay, but is attacked without warning by an unknown alien race, soon identified as soldiers of the 'Turian Hierarchy.' The alien fleet enters the Shanxi-Theta System, defeating several scout flotillas before arriving at Shanxi and beginning the first attack by an alien race on a human world since the Scrin.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>November 24, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi **

**Shanxi-Theta System**

Daniel Sullivan had been the first to die in what would come to be known as the First Contact War.

Others had died before him. The GDI expedition fleet had suffered losses at the Shanxi-Theta mass relay to the turian battle group, and more still fell as the alien fleet pushed to the Shanxi colony. They were brave men all, and had paid the ultimate price in service of the Global Defense Initiative, but as far as the 7th Armored Company was concerned, Private First Class Daniel Sullivan had been the first to truly die in the siege and assault of Shanxi.

Sullivan was well liked among the 7th, and had passed up multiple chances of promotion to avoid being moved from his present post. "I'm a tanker for life," he had said, "And if I left, who'd drive the _Inferno_?" He referred to the Mammoth Mk. IV Main Battle Tank, named for its commander, Staff Sergeant Phillip Dante. The hundred-ton monster sported twin 150mm cannons and matched eight-braces of anti-air missiles, not to mention reactive armor honed for decades to thwart the portable anti-tank launchers that insurrectionists favored.

Yet Sullivan had died outside the _Inferno_, without warning and without an enemy to return fire against. He had been caught outside the reinforced barracks when the turian battle group commenced their orbital barrage. One moment he had been alive, trotting across the frosty soil, and the next he had been gone. Hell had rained from the sky without warning or provocation, killing nearly two dozen of the 7th before the ground-based defense cannons returned fire.

But Sullivan had been the first of them, and it was his loss that pained the 7th the most.

Word came in shortly after the barrage to prepare for war. It seemed almost cruel to receive warning so late, but the turians were deploying for a ground campaign, and all Shanxi forces were being placed on full alert.

When news had reached the 7th that the aliens were bringing the war groundside, hate spread among the company like a virus: hate for the unprovoked attack, hate for the loss of their friends and comrades, and hate for being treated like unorganized rabble. The turians descended as if they were mopping up a bloodied enemy, but they would find that this claw of the Steel Talon division was far from dull.

* * *

><p>The <em>Inferno <em>lay in its shallow dugout, covered with a sheet of camo netting. It, like its brother machines arrayed across the frozen plains, was using out as little energy as possible without shutting down completely. The camo netting draped over it was as old as armored warfare itself, but it did its job well enough. As far as high-orbit turian vessels would be concerned, there was nothing to be seen on the plain but a few hills and a thin layer of snow. The cold, too, served to mask the tanks' already reduced heat signatures, rendering them as close to invisible as possible. If the ships came into a lower orbit, the ruse would be revealed, but the ground-based ion batteries had forced them back to an extent.

Still, the turians had found a way to dispatch landing craft and dropships, evading the ion cannons' line of fire and dispatching their troops and vehicles a scant few miles away. The 7th wasn't worried. If anything, they were eager. The _Inferno_'s track guards were covered in scrawled messages from men throughout the company, both commemorating Sullivan and promising revenge.

Staff Sergeant Phillip Dante gazed through the high-amplification lenses of his helmet, lying alongside the _Inferno_. The advancing aliens had set off the proximity sensors the 7th had set up along the possible routes the veritable army could have taken, confirming that their predicted path would lead them right into the teeth of the 7th.

Dante slid under the camo netting and climbed back into the Mammoth Mk. IV's interior, sealing the hatch after him and settling into his command couch. Below him, gunner Dabis was tapping a boot against the floor with such frequency that Dante expected it to leave a dent. Corven, the tank's engineer, had a data slate in his hands and a pair of earbuds in his ears, watching some sort of inspirational speech by an ancient general.

Dabis was impatient, and Corven keeping his blood boiling. Most ill at ease, however, was their new driver. PFC Arthur Burns was Sullivan's replacement, and he knew that he was just that: a replacement. He was no less skilled a tanker than his predecessor, but he was sitting in another man's seat, hands wrapped around another man's control console.

Dabis had treated him with well enough, assuring him that they'd kill a dozen for each shot the turians had dropped on them. Corven treated him with polite indifference, opting to cope with the loss internally. Dante didn't want Burns feeling like he was an outsider. A tank crew had to function in perfect rhythm. They were the inner workings of the Mammoth, and even a single cog out of place could stall the entire machine.

"Hey, private," Dante reached down, shaking Burns' shoulder lightly, "You alright?"

"Yessir," Burns nodded, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. Dante had no children, but he tried to give what he thought would seem a paternal smile.

"This is your place, private. Don't doubt that," Dante assured him, rapping his knuckles against one of the metal walls, "It's fitting for Burns to be in Dante's _Inferno_, eh?"

Burns cracked a smile. It was still tainted by nervousness, but it was an improvement. Dante glanced up at his console, noting a flashing green light. He tapped it once, opening the short-range comm.

"Dante here."

"_Banks says it's three minutes 'til they're in visual range. Your boys ready?_" It was Captain Robert Denver, the acting commander of the company. Colonel Josen had been among the fatalities of the bombardment.

"_Inferno_ is good to go," Burns replied, flicking another switch the expand the comm channel, "All commanders, check in. Three minutes to showtime."

7th Company normally totaled an even two hundred men, but the bombardment had reduced their number by eighteen. Forty of the soldiers were dedicated to the company's ten Mammoth Mk. IVs. Another ninety were divided into three thirty-man platoons, accompanied by armored personnel carriers. Each man was armed and armored with the standard gear of GDI infantry: basic body armor with integrated kinetic barriers and jump packs, and the highly versatile 'Werewolf' adaptable weapon system. They were dispersed along the trenchline, most troopers having prepped their Werewolves as long-range rifles in an effort to give their weapons reach that could at least compare to that of the tanks.

Thirty smaller dugouts held single occupants, smaller than the heavy Mammoths, but large enough for their mechanized troopers. The Wolverine Mk. III bore a resemblance to a legged tank turret, with two stubby arms sporting 20mm autocannons on either side. Despite its clumsy appearance, it was swift and maneuverable, and the armor-piercing autocannons could tear through infantry and light vehicles alike. Not only that, but it required only a single pilot in place of the driver and gunner a wheeled recon vehicle would have needed. The Wolverines were subdivided into three groups of then, each assigned to an infantry platoon.

The Mammoths, infantry platoons, and Wolverine squadrons reported in. No problems to report, and all a few switch-flips from being 100% battle ready. Burns knew that left only three additional units, all three of which were set up behind the firing line. They called out their readiness after the Mammoths, infantry, and mechs.

"Stonebreaker_, all green_."

"Thunderstruck_, ready to kill_."

"_And_ Atlas _makes last call_," Captain Denver finished, "_Fight well, soldiers. Gives these alien bastards a GDI welcome_."

Burns joined in the chorus of affirmatives, and then all fell silent. Dozens of fingers hovered over control consoles, ready to power up generators and prime weapons at a moment's notice. The turian force was moving steadily forward, oblivious to the GDI battle line. They were already in range of the humans' bigger guns, but Denver had another trick up his sleeve. For it to have full effect, he would need a few more seconds…

* * *

><p>Neither turian nor human was entirely sure of what they would face when they clashed on the ground. The turians had been completely victorious in space, but they knew from their own history that even civilians could pose potential threats if not guarded against. Thus, their troops tended to move in integrated groups, composed largely of infantry, but with vehicles and air support to ensure that they could combat any threat they should encounter.<p>

This group was nearly battalion strength, boasting hundreds of troopers on foot and in transports, and dozens of armored vehicles. They ranged from light recon craft that zipped along the flanks of the formation to massive tanks, held off the ground by powerful lift turbines. If the soldiers were afraid, they did not show it. The humans had a few surprises at their disposal, but they were little more than gimmicks in the face of the Turian Hierarchy's might. The orbital defense cannons had been one such trick, damaging several members of the turian flotilla before effective countermeasures could be deployed. And yet, for their efforts, most of them now orbited the planet only as debris, leaving a handful and several human ships to try and fend off the turian fleet. It had been child's play to slip infantry carriers past them and onto the surface, with the goal of clearing out military resistance, claiming urban centers, and destroying the ground-based cannons.

Unfortunately, two dozen hubcap-shaped devices, buried under the snow, somehow went unnoticed as the battalion moved through the woods and towards the open plains. It could have been a simple user error, or a delay in the detection tools because of the literally alien origin of the devices. It didn't much matter which of the two it was. What mattered was that all twenty four of the devices were now below the turian battalion, and Captain Robert Denver pressed his thumb to the detonator and triggered them all.

* * *

><p>Two dozen 'Lotus' anti-tank mines detonated in perfect unison, spread out among the turian force. Fourteen light vehicles were effectively torn in half by the heavy explosives, while six hovertanks were grounded as their engines were damaged to the point of failure.<p>

"Kill 'em all!" Denver shouted, slamming out his portion of the _Atlas's_ ignition sequence. His four crewman did the same did the same, and the interior of the war machine was filled with the roar of engines and clatter of weapons priming.

The Wolverines were the first to activate fully, roughly four seconds after Denver's order. They rose from their stooped positions and leveled their autocannons, pausing only an instant to pick targets among the surprised turians. The Lotus mines had wrought havoc among the turian vehicles, but they lacked anti-infantry capability, and dozens of vehicles had survived the explosions. The Wolverines had no such limitations. Their weapons were designed to dispatch infantry and even light vehicles, and the thirty mechs opened fire as one.

A sheet of armor-piercing munition slammed into the turian lines, shredding those troopers who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the open. The autocannons sliced through personal shields effortlessly. Smaller trees were blasted to splinters under the barrage. Avian troopers threw themselves to the ground or behind vehicles, desperate to evade the barrage of death.

A few recon craft came under fire from multiple Wolverines. Their kinetic barriers were noticeably stronger than anything an infantryman could carry, but the storm of autocannon shells was more than they could stand. After a few seconds, with the sound of shattering glass, the shields broke, exposing their bodies to the fire. Armor was pounded and beaten, but most weathered the damage. A few were caught at weak points: viewports, side armor, and the like. The rounds pierced, shredding the crew within and detonating internal munitions.

As the seven second mark ticked by, the turians returned fire, but many were well off target. The 7th's camouflage was still largely intact, and the turian forces were still disoriented. But it was also at this point that the Mammoths were battle-ready and added their own firepower to the attack.

By chance, the _Inferno_ received the honor of first barrage among the heavy tanks. Its twin cannons fired, sending a hovertank up in flames. Staff Sergeant Dante couldn't help but chuckle at how easily the turian armor fell before the GDI ordinance. Hover turbines made them significantly more maneuverable, to be sure, but they couldn't support nearly as much armor and firepower as treads could, no matter how dated the technology may have been. It had a certain poetic justice to it: twentieth-century tech supporting twenty-third century firepower.

The Mammoth itself was a testament to the GDI's integration of mass effect technology into their existing weaponry. It added powerful kinetic barriers to its defenses, making it all the more difficult to break open, and its mass effect power source made ammo the only concern for resupplying. Each 150mm cannon still used solid munition, but each shell was a marvel of engineering in its own right. Gunners could 'paint' their targets, allowing the shell's internal computer to correct its path mid-flight. It couldn't bend itself around corners, but it did ensure that every shot found its mark, even while target and Mammoth were both on the move.

The remaining nine Mammoths opened up, abandoning their camo sheets to free their rockets. The thunder of cannons was joined by the hiss of rockets racing from their pods. The foremost turian vehicles had been reduced to a flaming barrier of scrap, ironically providing some degree of protection to the infantry and vehicles that followed. The barrier proved problematic for the Wolverines, but the Mammoths' cannons pierced the unshielded debris effortlessly, tearing into what hid behind them.

Twelve seconds had passed. It was only then that the 7th's trump cards were brought to bear. The _Stonebreaker _and _Thunderstruck_ rose to their full heights, towering over their Wolverine comrades even from within their dugouts. Normally, they would be set up miles away from the front lines, raining 200mm artillery shells on their targets through coordinates provided by infantry or sniper teams.

But the turians were close enough that, from their full height, the twin Juggernaut Mk. IV artillery mechs could simply level their guns and fire directly.

Between the two of them, there were six barrels, firing in sequence to provide a constant stream of shells. They outclassed even the Mammoths' cannons, sending great geysers of snow, dirt, and metal into the air as the reshaped the geography of the area. Even heavy tanks were helpless before the devastating firepower, hurled into the air as if tossed aside like toys on the whim of some child god. Infantry caught in the direct blast simply ceased to exist. The 200mm shells were intended to shatter armor and reinforced structures: the turian soldiers disintegrated as if they were afterthoughts of the twin Juggernauts.

As the two Juggernauts joined the attack, the _Atlas_ joined the fight, letting loose with a blast from its main gun. Even through the sound-dampeners and thick armor, Denver heard and reveled in the banshee wail of the charging cannon, followed swiftly by the thunderous _crack_ of discharge. The sonic cannon, like the ion cannon, had the added advantage of partially bypassing kinetic barriers; an invaluable trait on a battlefield where everything from the lowliest infantry to the heaviest tank carried one.

The _Atlas_ was so large that its dugout had to be built into a small hill, but it had been worth it. The Mammoth Armed Reclamation Vehicle, or MARV, was easily the largest land-based vehicle in the GDI arsenal. It had been designed to rampage through Earth's tiberium-infested red zones, and it had done just that. It had given the GDI an ace that could pulverize anything the Brotherhood of Nod could bring to bear, even on their home turf. Its weight was so great that it required hover turbines built into its underside to help support its weight, though it followed after its smaller cousins in its reliance on treads.

The _Atlas_ was the pride of the 7th, the personal war machine of the late Colonel Joson, inherited by Captain Denver when he assumed command. Under its fury, the turians began a retreat that most other foes would have begun started when the Mammoths opened fire. GDI infantry raised their weapons and cheered as the turians fired a few final shots before dedicating their efforts to escape. The _Atlas _fired once more, then its sonic cannon fell silent.

Denver allowed himself a small smile. The aliens hadn't known what hit them. They had advanced with nearly battalion strength and been driven off by a single armored company. This was the power of the Global Defense Initiative, of the Steel Talons. If this was the best the turians could offer, the GDI would have them crushed within the week.

"Captain, transmission from the _Avalon_," one of the _Atlas'_ crewman called from below Denver, "Marked as urgent. Patching it through."

"…_nel Jos…ear me?_" a static-disrupted voice came over Denver's earpiece. Denver tapped a finger against it and replied,

"Say again, _Avalon_, not reading you clearly."

"…_damnit_, _clean up th…onel Joson, can you h…_"

Denver cursed, taking his finger away from the commbead and looking down to the radio operator.

"It's not getting through. Can you clean it up at all?"

"I'm trying, sir," the man replied, fingers flying over his console, "There's a lot of interference from ion discharge." The transmission came on again, still fuzzy, but decipherable.

"_Colonel Joson, this is Captain Wheeler of the _GDS Avalon_, do you read me?_"

"This is Captain Denver, 7th company," Denver replied, "The colonel was killed in the initial bombardment. I'm acting CO."

"_Shit_," the ship captain muttered, then raised his voice to reply, "_Captain Denver, we're outnumbered and outgunned up here. We've been given orders to fall back._" Denver sighed. He was afraid of this, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it. The fact that the turians had been able to successfully engage an orbital bombardment, however short it may have been, meant that their naval power was at least strong enough to contest the space around Shanxi.

"Understood. We'll fall back to the spaceport for evac," Denver responded.

"_Negative, captain. Fall back to the capitol. We're pulling out __**now**__._" Denver paused, taking a moment to fully grasp what he was hearing.

"_Avalon_, are we…?"

"_Yes, captain_," Wheeler said bitterly, frustration and sadness in his voice in equal measure, "_Assume urban tactics until we can bring reinforcements. You can't be out in the open if they have orbital supremacy_." Wheeler was silent for a moment. Denver heard what was either a burst of static or the sigh of a man who was burdened with a heavy choice.

"_We'll be back, captain. God watch over you_." The transmission ended. Denver didn't say a word for a few long seconds, paralyzed by the emotional whiplash of the situation. He'd just shown the invaders the power of the GDI ground forces, but in space, the situation was completely reversed. And that meant…

The enormity of the situation hit Denver like a rifle round. They needed to retreat. They needed to retreat _now_.

"Open a channel, all unit leaders," he barked to the communications officer, who complied quickly, despite his confusion. Denver struggled to keep his voice under control as he addressed all the commanders of the various components of the 7th.

"Denver to all unit leaders, fall back, repeat, fall back. Navpoint is Talruum." The order, and the urgent tone that accompanied it, caught all of the commanders off guard. There were three platoon commanders, two for the Mammoths, and six Wolverine lance leaders. Several of them asked for confirmation. From his command couch, Denver could see that most of the infantry were still celebrating their victory.

"Word from the _Avalon_ is that the birds are about to claim orbital control," Denver explained as quickly as he could, choosing the somewhat derogatory nickname for the aliens common among infantry, "If we're not in Talruum by the time they do, we'll be sitting ducks."

The pin dropped in the heads of the commanders, and the direness of the situation passed from Denver to them. Most didn't even bother closing the channel as they relayed the commands to their men, giving some version of Denver's explanation.

"Triple time, people," Denver said into a universal channel, "Priority is speed, formation is not. Repeat, fall back to Talruum with all possible speed."

If the seriousness of the situation wasn't apparent enough, the order made it so. In an armored unit, normal operational procedure dictated that they were only as fast as their slowest unit when on the move. Infantry, in their APCs, and the Wolverines were easily the swiftest of the 7th, followed by the Mammoths. The _Atlas_ was slightly behind the Mammoths, but the twin Juggernauts were not built for speed and always slowed the column. Under normal circumstances, their substantial firepower made this burden more than bearable. But these were anything but normal circumstances, and Denver was reluctantly aware of this.

"_Stonebreaker, Thunderstruck_," he addressed the two artillery mechs, hating himself for asking this of any pilot, "Set self-destruct sequences and join the infantry." The two commanders of either mech gave their replies of confirmation, but both were laced with anger. Mech pilots were notorious for their attachment to their vehicles, and most would sooner die than abandon them in the field. But Denver wasn't leaving any men behind, and the commanders knew he wasn't going to take any objections.

* * *

><p>The <em>Atlas<em> took up the rear by default, being the slowest of the 7th's assets, but even if it hadn't been, Denver would have opted to trail the company as the rear guard. Some of the sensors that they had set up in the woods for their ambush were still active, and they indicated that the turian infantry had regained their nerve and were on the move again, following in the GDI force's footsteps.

It was a bad sign, and Denver knew it. The 7th had a solid head start, but the turian vehicles were easily faster than them. He made certain that the _Atlas_ trailed the retreat largely because it was the single most powerful unit they had. It could go toe-to-toe with even small groups of turian armor without support, and it functioned as a deterrent to any vehicles that managed to catch up with them.

But there was another implied danger. If the turian ground forces were advancing, it could be simply be a fresh attempt to push forward, but it could also be a sign that they finally had orbital support.

Denver released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Just hours ago, his company had sent the turian forces running, broken their morale as surely as his cannons had broken their tanks. But now, he was racing against the clock, running for cover while still inside the single mightiest ground unit the GDI had to offer.

The captain had managed to raise communications with other companies deployed across the planet, hearing a dozen stories that frighteningly echoed his own. GDI troops had met the invaders head-on with almost universal success, but had heard messages similar to what the _Avalon_ had told Denver. Some were fortunate. They were close to urban areas or subterranean defenses and managed to go to ground. The turians seemed to have some degree of discretion when it came to deploying ordinance from space and only did so against confirmed concentrations of troops. Cities were a safe haven, but only if they remained hidden, and even then only until the turian ground forces moved in.

Others were less fortunate. They were caught in the open, too far from any viable defenses, or there was a turian vessel over them when they took control of Shanxi space. Too many company frequencies had gone silent, a few even cut off during transmissions with Denver.

It didn't take long for radio silence to be established. General Blake Williams had sent out a single transmission to GDI troops worldwide, ordering a complete communications blackout until further notice. Denver didn't blame him. There was a chance, however small, that the turians had cracked their comm network and could track them using their communications. Without that to work with, the fleet could only rely on little else than line-of-sight reports from troops groundside.

For whatever it was worth, Denver prayed. Denver prayed to whatever divine providence there might have been that his men make it to the relatively safety of Talruum. If a sacrifice was needed, he offered himself, and the _Atlas_. Anything to keep his men alive for just a short time longer.

His prayers were not answered.

* * *

><p>The first turian hovercraft appeared just as Talruum had come into sight. The APCs and Wolverines were within minutes of the city, so close that they could taste it. The Mammoths and <em>Atlas<em> would take longer, but their speed was increased dramatically when they were able to move onto the highway.

The turian vehicle was a recon model, armed with a light cannon and pintle-mounted secondary weapon. Denver all but vaporized it with the _Atlas'_ sonic cannon moments after it revealed itself. Denver hoped it had not managed to send out a transmission before its destruction. He knew that its disappearance would garner attention, but it would be a slower reaction than if it had called out their location before death claimed it.

Denver's hopes were dashed as two more vehicles appeared. It was not an isolated recon craft: it was merely leading the main body of turian troops. Denver fired another shot, but even as he did, he knew that it was a futile gesture. The cannon bolt went wide, blasting apart two lanes of the highway. A third shot destroyed one of the two, but more vehicles began to appear, among them turian heavy armor.

"Denver to all units, do _not_ engage enemy units," he ordered into the general frequency, "Do not stop, do not slow down." He winced as an impact struck the _Atlas_'s shields. They held, but the engineer announced the percent dip in protection. The turret swiveled, annihilating the offending tank with a blast of blue energy.

"Picking up a long-range transmission," the radio operator announced, "Can't crack it, but it's going off-world."

"They're calling the fleet," Denver growled through gritted teeth, savagely destroying another turian tank and damaging another. Twin blasts rumbled the super-heavy tank, and the shields dropped still further.

"Denver to all-," he stopped as another impact jarred him, then resumed, "Denver to all units. If you're holding anything back, now's the time to use it. We're dead men if their ships draw a bead on us." He finished as another turian hovertank died before the _Atlas_' fury. Multiple shots struck in retaliation, and the telltale sound of shattering glass announced that the MARV's shields had finally broken.

The _Atlas_ carried the most potent armor available to the GDI, but the difference between an impact against shields was a dramatically different thing than impact against the tank's body. Heavy munitions rocked the tank, whittling away at their protection. The driver struggled to correct the tank's path to compensate for the blasts. It was no small feat: the MARV was by no means an easy vehicle to maneuver, and being under continuous barrage made it exponentially more difficult. Denver would have had the man promoted for his skill had he not been so sure that he and the rest of the crew were going to die.

Another blast, this time accompanied by a rush of cold air. The engineer called out, but Denver knew that the hull had been breached. Their odds of survival had dropped from less than one to zero. Denver sent another tank crew to its grave before bracing himself for the shot that would pierce the _Atlas_'s armor and end them all.

A few seconds passed, but the shot never came.

"They're falling back," the radio operator announced, astounded, "They're actually falling back." For a moment, Denver was relieved. Their show of force had been enough. The turians were unwilling to risk further casualties to kill (what they thought was) a single vehicle. A slow smile spread across the radio operator's face, and the driver let out a laugh.

But then the moment passed, and Denver remembered the turian off-world transmission, and realized that the turian 'retreat' had only gained them a few extra seconds among the living.

* * *

><p>Staff Sergeant Dante had opened the top hatch of the <em>Inferno<em> to watch the now-distant battle between the _Atlas _and the turian armor through a pair of powerful compact binoculars. The _Atlas_ was the single most powerful unit the 7th had, but even it could be overwhelmed without support. Dante was torn between orders and the desire to turn his tank around and fight alongside his captain. He had little doubt that his crew would have no issue complying with such an order, even if it was against what Denver wanted.

But the turian vehicles began to slow down, ducking off the highway into the surrounding woods from where they'd first come. The _Atlas_'s shields were broken and its hull badly damaged, but if the turians were retreating for another attack, it might buy Denver enough time to restore his kinetic barriers.

Suddenly, the view through the binoculars went dark. A sudden blast of hot wind hit Dante, and he lowered the binoculars to see what had gone wrong.

A second sun exploded on the highway, engulfing the _Atlas_ and all eight lanes of the highway. Dante shut his eyes instinctively, but the light shone through his lids. He frantically ducked back into the tank, pulling the hatch shut behind him. A tremendous thunderclap reverberated through the tank's internal speakers, and it took no time for Dante to realize what had happened.

"What the hell was that?" Dabis shouted. Corven was silent, having realized along with Dante what had happened. Burns glanced back from the driver's seat.

"Sir?" he asked hesitantly. Dante felt any chance of the 7th surviving the race to Talruum evaporate like water on hot asphalt.

"They're firing from orbit," he said with disbelief. He couldn't think of any other way to say it, but no other words were needed.

* * *

><p>The development spread among the remaining commanders within seconds. Most had been watching the <em>Atlas<em> in some way, and thus most had seen its demise. A few cursed, others prayed, but most felt an unsettling feeling of complacency. They were traveling as quickly as their steel mounts could carry them already, and it was a straight shot to the city. Their odds of survival would only drop if they tried anything else now that the turian ship had them in its sights.

Under the barrage of death, the 7th Company raced onward. With each impact, men were burnt to nothing and armor reduced to bubbling slag. Just as the GDI weaponry had made such short work of their turian counterparts, the ordinance raining down on them was intended for combat between capital ships. When fired at units planetside, there was virtually nothing mobile that could survive a direct impact.

Yet the Steel Talons 7th armored company continued, even as their numbers waned. In the city, they could hold their ground. By no means would they thrive, but they would survive. And there was not a single man in the 7th who didn't want to survive to see the GDI reinforcements crush the turian invaders with the might that had defeated the Brotherhood of Nod, that had driven back the Scrin. Tiberium had all but consumed Earth, yet the GDI had survived. Tiberium could not be fought or killed. Turians could, and the 7th was eager to survive for that express reason.

**Well, that's it for chapter one. R&R, anonymous accepted. **

**And let me stress again: _Renegade_ is an amazing story, and I owe all credit for the foundations of this alternate universe to Peptuck. When you're done here, go read _Renegade_. You won't regret it. **

**In news related to this story, chapter two will cover the beginning of the urban fighting in Talruum.  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, chapter two. No real commentary to make before this one, so let's jump right in.**

* * *

><p><strong>November 12, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

"-so I said to him, 'The same way I got your sister to sleep with me: at gunpoint!' Sonuvabitch went absolutely _mental_."

Private First Class Sean Findlay roared with laughter, almost falling out of his seat, though this was in part because he had an array of empty pints and shot glasses laid out before him.

Specialist David Reese gave a wide grin. He, too, had already gone through multiple drinks, but not nearly as many as his larger friend. He took another gulp from his own glass before adding,

"That ended up being the second time I got my nose broken. Damn worth it, though."

"Jesus H. Christ, Dave," Findlay righted himself in his seat, "I wouldn't believe that comin' from anyone else. You're a special kinda crazy, know that? My kinda crazy."

"I see where this is going," Lance Corporal Ulrich Kastner glanced at Reese and Findlay in turn with a serious expression on his face, "And let me say that there's no shame in it. There are plenty of soldiers who come to terms with who they are after a few years of group showers." By that point, Kastner couldn't keep a straight face and cracked a smile, while Findlay fell into another bout of laughter.

It was the 7th armored and 34th heavy infantry's weekend off duty, and nearly every man had come to Talruum to unwind. Findlay, Reese, and Kastner were three of a dozen who'd come to this particular bar. The bar itself was not particularly special: it had the same dim lights, cold drinks, and vid screens showing some form of sporting event that virtually any other bar in Shanxi's capitol would have had.

What made _Finnegan's Wake_ unique was its owner and bartender, Michael Finnegan. The 34th was composed almost entirely of Zone troopers, and Finnegan had at one point been among their power-armored ranks. As current Zone troopers, Findlay and Kastner had a natural kinship with him. It also certainly helped that he cut his prices dramatically for active GDI troops, meaning at the _Wake_ they could get black-out drunk for the price of a few drinks anywhere else.

Reese called down the bar, attracting Finnegan's attention. In spite of the eyepatch Finnegan wore over his right eye, he always seemed to know when someone was looking for a new drink. With practiced ease, Finnegan slid a fresh pint down the length of the bar and into Reese's waiting hand.

The specialist was not a Zone trooper, or even a member of the 34th. He was a Wolverine pilot with the 7th, but that did not stop his friends from trying to tempt him to the ranks of heavy infantry. He was smaller than both Kastner and Findlay, though the latter dwarfed virtually everyone around him with his gigantic frame. Even then, he found a bond with Finnegan that few in all of GDI space could claim.

Finnegan paused a moment to wipe a finger under his eyepatch. Even in the dim light, Reese could see the faint glimmer of green from beneath. For those fortunate enough to see what was beneath Finnegan's eyepatch, in place of his eye was a cut gem of green glass. Fewer still realized that this was tiberium, the same toxic crystal that had all but engulfed the Earth's surface. How exactly he had been exposed to tiberium was a mystery even to Reese, but Finnegan was a mutant nonetheless, and Reese shared his condition.

Reese's only visible mark of the mutation was a roughly circular patch of crystal an inch across just behind his hairline, concealed by his dark hair. It didn't protrude far beyond his scalp, and generally went unnoticed. From time to time, Reese made a show of his ability to smash bottles against his head with no ill effect, a great trick for those who did not know of his mutant status and entertaining even to those who did.

Both Finnegan and Reese's mutations were benign, of course; had they not been, the two would have been dead minutes after their initial tiberium exposure. Instead, tiberium proved itself just as fickle in mutation as it was in its natural state. Just as it had fueled countless innovations while simultaneously slowly devouring the Earth, the mutation had left Finnegan and Reese effectively superhuman. Reese had drunk less than the hulking Findlay, but knew from experience that he had a stronger constitution than the much bigger man, and the two were roughly equals in terms of physical strength.

"Speaking of getting fucked, we're gonna miss the last tram back to base if we stick around much longer," Kastner glanced down at his watch, managing as always to be the voice of reason, even when inebriated.

"Damn. Already?" Findlay asked, not expecting an answer as he looked over to Reese, "How 'bout it? Head back with us, get yourself a _real_ suit of armor?"

"I thought you'd never ask. Lead away," Reese answered with a smirk, standing from his seat. Findlay and Kastner did the same, the former with noticeably more difficulty.

"Hell, it's about time," Findlay chuckled, ending the sentence with a belch. Kastner instinctively moved behind him on the somewhat likely chance that he fell over, "Let's get rolling."

"-_but rest assured, this unprovoked act of aggression will not go unanswered._"

Reese looked up at the television over the bar. It had changed from the original sporting event to an image of Director James Garcia, the single most powerful man of the GDI bureaucracy. He stood at a podium emblazoned with the golden eagle over a blue background that served as the GDI seal. Reese could see that the director was seething, though keeping his emotions in check for the sake of the broadcast.

"You coming, man?" Findlay called out, already at the door with Kastner. Reese glanced at them for a moment before returning his gaze to the TV. The Zone troopers seemed further away somehow, though the bar was no larger than it had ever been.

"_The Initiative has been attacked by traitors from within and aliens from without, and we have triumphed each time. If this 'Turian Hierarchy' wishes first contact between our races to be war, then so be it._"

"Something the matter, son?" Finnegan asked. Nearly half his face was covered with a creeping growth of tiberium, but Reese paid the bartender no heed. For some reason, the broadcast was more attention grabbing than the veteran's benign mutation suddenly becoming all-too active. Finnegan was frighteningly undisturbed by the development.

"_As we speak, Admiral Drescher is leading the Second Fleet in a counterattack_," Garcia stated firmly, eyes piercing the screen and drilling Reese to the core, "_Our will is strong and our cause is just. Shanxi will be ours again, and these alien aggressors will pay for their attack in blood._"

"Shanxi…" Reese murmured. That didn't make sense. They were _on_ Shanxi. There was no alien attack, no-

And at that moment, Reese remembered, and _Finnegan's Wake_ vanished in a flash of light as surely as if it had been caught in a nuclear blast.

* * *

><p><strong>December 1, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

Specialist David Reese awoke with a start. For a moment, he forgot his surroundings, and the darkness filled him with confusion. After a few seconds, it all came back to him. The initial attack, the battle in orbit, the 7th's counterattack, and their frantic retreat to the towering skyline of Talruum.

"Bad dreams?" Reese ran a hand through his hair, sparing a glance over to the figure sitting against the opposite wall. She had opened the visor of her bulky powered armor to accommodate the lit cigarette resting between her lips. Lance Corporal Laura Palmer was one of the 34th's Zone troopers, who had also been close enough to Talruum to make it a viable fallback point. She was one of roughly sixty GDI soldiers holed up in the underground garage of an apartment building, the others mostly a mixture of Marines and Zone troopers from the 7th, 34th, and 82nd Marines.

The 7th had made it to Talruum, but the orbital strikes had taken a grievous toll on their numbers. He didn't have any exact numbers, but Reese had seen enough to know that the majority of the 7th hadn't escaped into the city.

"Nothing worse than what we're already dealing with," he snorted, sitting up on his bedroll, "What's your excuse?"

"Half insomnia, half to hear the director's speech," Palmer gestured to the small vidscreen that had been set up on a small stack of crates, "Apparently we're getting those reinforcements we were promised."

"About time," Reese muttered, looking over to the other soldiers sleeping some distance away. He was surprised the speech hadn't woken them up, either. Then again, they'd been embroiled in close to a week of urban combat. The turians had advanced on the city as expected, and the GDI elements who'd made it already first made them pay for every block.

"You two heard the speech, I'm guessing?" Staff Sergeant Phillip Dante joined the conversation, an open canteen in one hand. Almost pitifully, he was the highest ranking officer in the improvised company, and the burden of command had fallen on him none too gently after his impromptu promotion to acting captain following the death of Captain Denver. Normally clean-shaven, his face was darkened by the beginnings of a beard, and his eyes were ringed dark from lack of sleep.

"Bits and pieces," Reese nodded, "Any idea how long it'll take the fleet to get here?"

"You mistake me for something more than a humble tank commander, specialist," Dante managed a smile, "I couldn't say. We're gonna need to-" He paused, faint chatter coming over his earpiece. He gave a faint curse, then got back on his feet.

"Trouble," he said simply, not wasting words, "Get everyone up and loaded. We've got birds incoming, reinforced company at the least." He looked at Reese.

"How soon can you have your rig online?"

"Give me two minutes," Reese scrambled to his feet.

"Good enough," Dante nodded, pressing a finger to his earpiece, "Tommy, can you buy us a few minutes?"

* * *

><p>"…<em>buy us a few minutes?<em>"

"Will do," Domasi Tawodi, better known as Tommy among the 7th, responded quietly, clicking the channel closed and resting his longbarreled GLS-90 sniper rifle against the windowsill. He was ten stories above the remainder of the GDI troops, camping in one of the apartments with a view of the street below.

The sounds of combat were omnipresent in Talruum, but they'd been getting closer with each passing minute. A short time ago, he'd picked up close-range radio chatter from an embattled GDI squad conducting a frantic retreat through the very street he overlooked. Sure enough, the scope of his rifle revealed the squad several blocks down, moving between any cover available as what looked like a solid company of turian troops advanced on them.

Tawodi was not alone on the tenth floor. Across the street, two other marksmen were similarly set up and armed. Most GDI troops used the highly-adaptable 'Werewolf' weapon system, famed for its ability to switch on the fly between multiple weapon modules. Its only real weakness was this same adaptive capability: it was a jack of all trades, but it could not quite match the abilities of single-function weaponry. As a result, Tawodi and his fellow marksmen chose to use the GLS in place of the Werewolf. It was not as thick and noticeably lighter, not to mention sporting a longer effective range.

"Are the aliens coming, mommy?" Tawodi didn't need to look to see where the small voice had come from. Like most of Talruum, the apartment building was far from abandoned. Too many civilians hadn't been able to evacuate the city, and the streets had become a warzone ever since the turians moved in. Everyone still within the city limits was trapped.

Tawodi's sniper nest held a mother and her daughter. Apparently, their father had been across town when the turians had entered the city, and they hadn't heard any word from him since wired communications went down. The mother reassured her daughter that he was fine, but Tawodi could tell that she feared the worst for her husband.

"Hush, sweetie. It's alright." It pained Tawodi to use an occupied apartment as a sniper nest, but there wasn't much choice, especially not now. Moving his setup to another area would take precious minutes, and there was no guarantee that he could find a good position that didn't have any occupants.

"Cover her ears," Tawodi advised the mother, closing one eye and gazing through his scope. She complied, and Tawodi's vision was suddenly magnified several times over. He could see the bloodied GDI force, a mixture of Zone troopers and Marines, several of whom were clearly wounded. As he watched, one was struck in the back by a burst of fire, shattering his kinetic barrier. Another burst tore through his leg, dropping him to the ground.

One of his comrades grabbed him by the collar of his body armor, struggling to pull him behind an abandoned car. Tawodi watched in silence as a light cannon blast from a turian hovercraft consumed them both, leaving little more than a charred crater where they had been.

The turians were still far off, too far for small arms. Even most marksmen would have waited for them to close in further before taking their shots. But Tawodi was in no mood to wait, and took in slow breath before aligning his crosshairs.

* * *

><p>Where they had once been fifty men, they had been cut down to just over twenty. For nearly twenty blocks, Seventh Avenue was covered with the scars of war and death. The cars that had served as improvised cover were bullet-riddled and burning, and the road was almost as cratered as Earth's moon.<p>

And all along Seventh Avenue, the bodies of the fallen lay, abandoned in the heat of battle. Human and turian dead alike stood as a testament to the furious combat that was taking place, and to the penalty for the GDI soldiers should they let the turians overrun them.

Private First Class Sean Findlay had some degree of respect for the turian infantry. He had yet to see them retreat, and none of their men broke ranks in the face of the GDI's fearsome firepower. Such discipline was a powerful thing, but it meant that any firefight between them and the GDI would be a bloodbath.

But that respect was minute compared to Findlay's hatred of the aliens. He'd spent the better part of the last week watching his friends and comrades die, and it seemed that this 'tactical withdrawal' would end with their last stand. Over half the men of the company that had awakened that morning were dead, and not a man among them was willing to surrender.

Findlay's Werewolf barked, its railgun module catching a turian trooper in his faceplate. Whether his kinetic barrier was already down, or if the Werewolf had hit some sort of design flaw, the alien dropped instantly, a fair portion of his head blasted out through the back of his helmet.

Findlay counted himself lucky for his Zone armor. It had saved his life countless times already, and it allowed him to fire his weapon single-handed without rendering it completely ineffective. He had little choice in the matter: a limp body of a wounded Marine was slung over his shoulder, braced by his left arm. There were seven other Zone troopers among the remaining troops, and five of them were hauling wounded comrades in one form or another.

"Someone take out that tank!" Findlay shouted, firing his Werewolf again at a turian trooper. The round missed its target, instead glancing off the flank of the vehicle in question. It was a light tank, at best, but its cannon and secondary gun were still wreaking havoc among the GDI infantry.

PFC Reed answered the call. The Marine shouldered his Werewolf, unslinging the MOD-3 anti-tank launcher from his back. He was the only member of the group with dedicated anti-armor weaponry, and precious little ammunition remaining for it. But if left unchecked, the turian vehicle would cut down still more of the GDI troops.

He triggered a quick burst from the briefcase-sized jump pack mounted on the back of his body armor. If he rose too high, he'd be as easy a target as a clay pigeon for the turian infantry. He pushed himself back, propelled just over the heads of his comrades by the jump pack and the reduced gravity provided by his mass effect field.

But as Reed took aim at the tank, Findlay saw one of the turians drawing a bead on him. Time slowed to a crawl as he raised his Werewolf, letting loose a shot from the railgun. The round distorted the air as it traveled, and to Findlay's dismay, passed within a hair's breadth of the turian trooper. There wasn't time for a second shot, and the alien had his sights squarely on one of their few chances of survival.

A whistling buzz, like an angry hornet, raced over Findlay's head, barely audible even to his advanced audio receptors. But even as his own shot pulverized a storefront display, the new shot punched the turian off his feet, leaving a bloody hole in his chest. Findlay struggled to realize what happened as another similar sound heralded the death of another turian trooper.

* * *

><p>Tawodi shifted his aim to another trooper. He took in a new lungful of air, held it, and squeezed the trigger a third time. This time, he was slightly off target, striking the shoulder of a turian soldier. The shot broke his kinetic barrier and mangled his shoulder, but did not drop the soldier. A bolt from a Zone trooper's railgun, however, did.<p>

The two marksmen across the way began to open up as well, taking the cue from Tawodi to support the embattled squad. Their rate of fire was slow, but the GLS rifles were powerful enough to damage even light vehicles. At worst, they broke kinetic barriers with a single shot and finished their targets off with a second. For others, the infantry's fire had already weakened their protective shields, leaving them to perish with no more than a single shot from the longbarreled rifles.

The little girl was crying in the corner, head buried in her mother's shoulder. Tawodi voiced a silent apology as he fired again, the crack of his rifle filling the apartment. With each shot, the girl sobbed anew, and Tawodi's hatred for the alien invaders grew.

He watched as the light tank took another life, infuriated that his rifle could not stop the armored hovercraft. But one among the troopers had a weapon that could. A Zone trooper gestured to the tank, and one of the Marines drew a dedicated anti-tank launcher. With his line of sight obstructed by friend and foe alike, the Marine was forced to use his jump pack.

The action should have cost him his life, but Tawodi was not willing to let such a selfless move go unprotected. A turian took aim at the Marine, but Tawodi's rifle blasted a hole in his chest plate, splattering it with purple blood. Tawodi took no small satisfaction as the Marine let loose a blast from his MOD-3, sending a trio of rockets racing toward the turian tank.

* * *

><p>The MOD-3 had select-fire capability, able to unleash one, two, or three small rockets with deadly accuracy. Any subsequent rockets fired after the first struck with pinpoint accuracy at the same point the first had hit. In theory, the first would damage kinetic barriers, the second would crack them, and the third would strike the now-vulnerable vehicle.<p>

The turian craft's shields were already weakened by infantry fire, shattering with the first rocket. Its armor, however, was built to resist small arms, not anti-tank weapons like the MOD-3. The second rocket would have been enough, but the Marine wasn't taking any chances. The tank went up in a geyser of flames and shrapnel, cutting down those turians unfortunate enough to be inside the blast radius.

"That's our opening! Full burn!" Findlay howled over the din of combat. He was by no means the highest ranking of the group, but no one questioned the decision. The destruction of the tank was their best chance at putting distance between themselves and the turians.

Findlay's jump pack ignited almost simultaneously with eighteen others, sending the GDI troopers rocketing nearly three stories into the air and down the street at a pace normal infantry couldn't hope to match. Most faced backwards for the better part of their flight, choosing to keep up their fire against the disoriented turians even as they soared through the air.

As they drew closer, Findlay could see the partially suppressed flashes of sniper rifles from the higher floors of buildings. Findlay let out a jubilant laugh, finally seeing firsthand the men who had saved them in the nick of time.

Unbeknownst to the GDI soldiers, there was a saying among the sentient races of the galaxy: "You will only see a turian's back once he's dead." Centuries of discipline kept the alien troopers together in spite of the loss of armor support, and many sprinted to try and catch up with the rapidly escaping humans. The explosion had passed, and infantry fire resumed. The distance was its own protection for the GDI, but kinetic barriers flared nonetheless as a few rounds hit their marks.

"Hold here!" Findlay shouted, landing with such force that he cracked the pavement beneath his armored boots, "Don't show 'em your backs, Marines! Hold your ground!"

With the sniper support over their heads, the GDI were finished running away. They landed and spun, taking cover behind parked and abandoned cars, broken roadblocks, and any other cover offered to them before opening fire. The Zone troopers set down their wounded comrades in doorways and alleys, adding their substantial firepower to the already potent weaponry the Marines offered. Two of the power armored soldiers grabbed hold of cars, grunting with exertion as they dragged them into the road and flipped them onto their sides, forming additional barriers between the GDI troops and the turian fire.

The frontrunners of the turian company died under the salvo of vengeful gunfire, riddled with holes by the storm of Werewolf fire. Others were blasted apart by high-caliber railguns, and fewer were felled as GLS shots killed with slow but pinpoint accuracy. Findlay hit the module cycler, switching his weapon's firing mode in barely more than a second. The _crack_ of the railgun that normally characterized Zone troopers was replaced by the continuous clatter of a light machine gun, cutting down more turians as the aliens sought cover.

One Marine fell, dropping his weapon and grasping his throat. Blood spurted between his fingers from the wound, a surely fatal one should it be left unattended. Only one of the group's three medics remained, but he moved immediately to tend to the thrashing man.

A savage grin was plastered across Findlay's face behind his visor. The turians had been tearing at them for the better part of the day, and the GDI's superior firepower had been hobbled by their continuous retreat. But with their new position, well over a dozen turians were already dead, and they only had one wounded GDI Marine to show for it.

A screech of metal-on-metal was heard over the cacophony of gunfire, and Findlay could barely make out a bulky shape pushing past the wreckage of the light tank, obscured by the smoke.

* * *

><p>Tawodi fired as quickly as his GLS's mechanism would allow. It was nearly a perfect killzone, and most of the turians were too preoccupied with the ground troops to take aim at the marksmen, in spite of the heavy toll the sharpshooters were taking on them.<p>

Tawodi couldn't help but pause to glance at the pair across the room. The girl was silent, cheeks stained with tears, but seemed more in shock than anything else. Her mother stroked her hair, murmuring encouraging words. Tawodi turned his attention back to the battlefield, determined to make the turians pay for what they had done to the girl.

She couldn't have been more than eight, but Tawodi knew that with each shot, he aged her. Perhaps by a month, perhaps by a year, or perhaps only by a day, but the fact remained that war spared no one, least of all the survivors. Even if she lived through this ordeal, the little girl's innocence was long since taken as a casualty. She would never forget the Cherokee soldier crouched by her window, raining death on monsters that had fallen from the sky.

No sooner had Tawodi turned back to the killing field that an explosion tore through the opposite building, devouring one of the other marksmen. Tawodi's eyes widened in surprise, searching for the weapon that had claimed the sniper.

It emerged from the smoke and flame of the slain light tank, darkened by soot and debris. It dwarfed the broken hovercraft, borne aloft by six white-hot lift turbines, sleek and angular in spite of its bulk. It would have normally resembled a massive predator, like most turian crafts.

But wreathed in fire as it was, it looked like a demon, come for their souls.

Its turret was still angled toward the slain marksman. Tawodi cursed, picking off another infantryman. Of all the units to finally take notice of the marksman, it had to be one he couldn't…

_There_. His scope settled on possibly the only vulnerable point on the massive tank: a small spot at the base of the turret, alongside the cannon. If the tank was designed anything like GDI armor, it was linked to a video feed that allowed the gunner to see where the cannon was aimed without the structural weakpoint that a traditional viewport would have provided. If Tawodi could damage it, it would at least impair the tank's ability to use its cannon.

Already, the turret was beginning to swivel toward him. He would have one chance to damage the war machine. He took in a quick breath and shifted his crosshairs, settling over the nub alongside the cannon. Silently voicing a prayer to the spirits of his forefathers, he squeezed the trigger.

In that moment, Private First Class Domasi Tawodi could have picked the wings off a fly from a half-mile away. The GLS-90, painstakingly adjusted and recalibrated to best serve its owner, did not let its barrel stray a millimeter. It was a perfect shot, the most perfect even a veteran marksman like Tawodi could hope for.

And in a dim glint of orange, the tank's powerful kinetic barriers stopped the shot as though it were an afterthought.

Tawodi had just enough time to see the nub left untouched before the cannon boomed, turning his world white. His eardrums burst, but pain overwhelmed his brain, canceling virtually every sensation as it threatened to shut down entirely. He was barely aware that he was hurled across the room, slamming into the opposite wall and hitting the floor.

He came to rest half-propped against the wall, head tilted to face the mother and child. The woman hugged her child closer, silently mouthing 'Oh God' as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Her daughter, however, stared right back at Tawodi. Her cheeks were still coated with dry tears, but fresh ones no longer flowed. Her eyes were blank, unreadable, but but only because there was nothing behind them. They were the glassy eyes of a person with one foot in the grave, simply waiting for their bodies to catch up with their minds.

Tawodi managed to turn his head, seeing that his body had disappeared below the waist. A meter-long trail of intestines lay across the floor behind him, trailing from his ruptured torso. A massive hole was blasted in the wall of the apartment. A similar structural wound was visible across the street where the first marksman had met his end. With the last of his energy, Tawodi lolled his head back to face the little girl.

"For…forgive me," he managed before his throat filled with blood. He could not hear his own words, much less any reply they might have received. But the little girl simply stared at the dying soldier, staring with her dead eyes.

Tawodi's life ended moments later, his last thought sadness, mourning that he had killed the little girl as surely as the tank's cannon had killed him.

* * *

><p>"Sonuva<em>bitch<em>!" Findlay hissed, switching back to his railgun module and turning his attention on the tank. The bolts glanced off the kinetic barrier, but even then, it was likely that the armor was too thick for even the heavy infantry weapon.

Their support from the marksmen was all but gone, and debris showered on the infantry below. The turians, emboldened by the tank's presence, began to advance under the cover it provided. Two of the Zone troopers followed Findlay's lead and switched to their railguns, but it was still woefully insufficient.

"Reed!" Findlay shouted, not taking his eyes off the tank as he fired again and again, "Where's that launcher?" No reply came, and, more importantly, no rockets raced from the GDI position.

"Goddamnit, Reed, where's that…" Findlay finally turned to his right, the reality suddenly dawning on him. The wounded Marine that the medic was toiling over had a rocket launcher lying beside him. Findlay swore, cursing himself for not having noticed that of all the men to be taken out of action, it was the only one with an anti-tank weapon.

The tank's turret lowered from its previous shot, leveling toward the infantry at street level. Findlay knew full well that the cannon would tear through their makeshift cover like tissue paper. It was designed for piercing the armor of other tanks. The metal plating of landcars and concrete barriers wouldn't even slow its shots.

Discarding his Werewolf, Findlay lunged for the fallen MOD-3.

* * *

><p>Fenix Tarkan took no satisfaction at the death of the human marksman. Perhaps it was chance that his final shot struck squarely over the cannon's sight, but it had not been 'chance' that wreaked havoc among the turian ranks from afar. He had been a skilled warrior and a worthy opponent, slain by a foe his rifle could not touch.<p>

The human military was putting up an admirable resistance, but it was inevitable that they would fold under the weight of the Hierarchy's power. Even their most basic soldier had limited flight capability and potent firepower, and their tanks almost all outweighed their turian counterparts. Their elite infantry were even more dangerous, standing taller than krogans, in suits of powered armor and wielding proportionally larger weapons.

Perhaps most unique of all was their widespread possession of energy weapons. It was a feat that not even the Citadel races had accomplished on such a scale, and their effectiveness was without question. The fire from their orbital defenses had caught the turian battlegroup completely off guard, partially bypassing their kinetic barriers from the first shot.

Their fleet, too, used these energy weapons, but the human fleet was pitifully small and swiftly crushed. With the destruction of the satellite defenses and their entire fleet, the human planet was powerless to halt the turian advance. Hundreds of dropships deposited thousands of troops and vehicles to the planet's surface, and much of the enemy ground force was eradicated by orbital bombardment.

Most of those that remained retreated to their cities for protection. Turian military doctrine was clear enough: the foe's war machine was to be utterly destroyed, preventing it from ever becoming a threat again, and the humans inducted into the Hierarchy as a colony. It would have been simple enough to level the cities from orbit, but much of the civilian population had not left, and the turian goal was not genocide.

Fenix was one of thousands who worked to clear out the soldiers who still hid inside the city, but it was no small task. The humans were fighting with the frenzy of a trapped animal, as expected. Until they surrendered and submitted themselves to disarmament, the turian military would continued to tighten the noose. And if they chose to fight until the end…

Fenix dismissed the thought. He knew his duty, and knew that it would only end if the human soldiers surrendered or were killed to the last man. He would fight until either outcome.

His 'Skaarj' heavy tank was named for a savage tribal race of turian mythology, and was every ounce as vicious a predator as its namesake. It required only a pilot and a gunner, the latter position held by Fenix, the former by a soldier named Stahl. An onboard VI handled functions related to sensors and communications, freeing the two organic crew members to focus on their duties.

With the marksmen dealt with, Fenix turned the turret to face the troops on the street. The Skaarj's cannon would make short work of their crude cover. Fenix placed his eyes to the viewfinder, settling the reticule on the makeshift barriers as the VI automatically highlighted the visible troopers.

"_Caution. Unidentified hostile located-_" the VI's voice was drowned out by the deafening sound of impact, rocking the Skaarj before it settled back on its turbines. To Fenix's right, the interior wall of the tank had been pounded inward, damaging the electronics mounted on the wall and causing the damage schematic to light up like a Christmas tree.

"Stahl! The hell was that?" Fenix shouted over the VI's damage report.

"Kinetic barriers are still at 76%, turbine four's sputtering," Stahl read off before responding, "I can't say. Whatever it was, it didn't set off our-"

A series of pounding slams interrupted the driver. Fenix watched in shock as the interior wall became further distorted, as if being hit by fists powerful enough to damage the thick armor.

With a final screech of tortured metal, a thick cylinder broke through the weakened plating. Fenix continued to stare, disbelieving, as the end of the cylinder exploded in flames, tearing the turian apart under its fury. It swept through the interior of the tank, killing Stahl just as surely as the gunner. After a few more seconds, it stopped, and withdrew from the ruined interior of the now-scrapped Skaarj.

* * *

><p>Towering at just over twelve feet tall, the Wolverine Mk. II was compartively light by GDI standards. Still, the impact of its charge had damaged the flank of the turian tank, and one of its two autocannons had finished it off. With the single largest threat of the turian company disabled, it turned its attention to the infantry, still stunned by the sudden turn of events.<p>

The twin autocannons roared, tearing divots in the pavement as it guided the stream of shells into the alien ranks. The effects were immediate and devastating. The high-caliber rounds tore limbs from bodies, turning armored soldiers into little more than mulch. Frantic return fire sparked off the Wolverine's kinetic barriers. If anything, it only served to further fuel the war machine's rampage.

The squat walker stepped forward, never ceasing its twin streams of death. Its feet crushed corpses and debris with equal ease and equal contempt. Additional gunfire rippled from the left side of the street, catching the flank of the reeling turian troops in a lethal crossfire.

What had once been a company-strength group with armor support, scores lay dead along Seventh Avenue, but no more clustered anywhere than they were now. The Wolverine's autocannons cut down turian infantry with terrifying ease, and the additional support from inside the adjacent building was the final nail in the company's coffin. The turians did not retreat, nor did they try to surrender. The GDI would have done the same had they been in their position. Under the storm of death, they were killed to the last man, and then there was silence.

* * *

><p>Findlay nearly dropped the MOD-3 launcher in disbelief. He heard the medic announced Reed's stability, but the Zone trooper's attention was elsewhere. Its slaughter complete, it turned to face the GDI soldiers whose lives it had saved. After a few paces, it was close enough for Findlay to make out the details of the walker.<p>

The armor was beaten and worn, with several marks of a welder's torch appearing eerily reminiscent of scars on human flesh. It bore the insignia of the 7th armored company on its right shoulder, and the gray eagle of the Steel Talons on its left. Most noticeable of all, though, was the bone-white graffiti scrawled across its boxy torso in capital letters: 'This machine kills birds.' Five clusters of tallymarks were inscribed below it, and after the display that it had put on, Findlay didn't doubt a single one of the kill marks.

"_Grab your wounded and follow me_," the pilot's voice erupted from the walker's external speakers, "_We can't stay in the streets long_."

Findlay didn't question the order, nor did any of the other soldiers. Slinging a trooper over his shoulder as gently as he could, Findlay trailed behind the Wolverine as it made its way back to the slain turian company. Findlay marveled at the destruction it had caused, but knew that much of it was because it had taken down the tank as quickly as it had. Normally, even a medium tank would have been able to dispatch the comparatively light Wolverine with ease.

Beside the wreckage of the turian war machine was a ramp leading down to a garage beneath an apartment complex. Once the GDI troops had all passed through, metal shutters lowered from the ceiling, closing off the entrance. It seemed that fortune was on their side: the tank had parked itself directly alongside the exit, giving the Wolverine full access to its weaker side armor. From what Findlay had seen, it had shoulder-charged the heavier vehicle to damage it, then simply pounded through the weakened plating with its gunbarrels. It was a risky move, seeing as intact tank plating probably would have sooner damaged the autocannons than buckled, but the warped armor over the Steel Talons insignia on the Wolverine's shoulder was a testament to how hard it had hit.

After the shutters closed, lights flickered on, and the group moved deeper into the garage. Findlay spotted a few motion sensors along the way, presumably to keep any turians who broke in from catching the troops by surprise. Two floors down, they were greeted by the guards posted at an improvised gatehouse, composed of a pair of cargo haulers blocking further access.

"Friendlies at the gate! Let 'em pass," a new voice called out. The two haulers rumbled to life, moving a short distance in either direction until there was enough room between them to admit even the Wolverine. A man in the gray fatigues of a tanker stood on the other side, the stripes of a staff sergeant on his shoulder. The Wolverine stepped through first, and he moved aside to allow it to pass.

"Who's in charge here?" the man asked, looking at the haggard GDI party. The men glanced around amongst themselves, genuinely uncertain. The day's fighting had taken a heavy toll on their numbers, and this was the first chance they had gotten to assess which of their comrades had made it out alive.

"Technically, me," the man on Findlay's shoulder groaned, "Sergeant Flense, 82nd Marines, but I haven't been…" he paused, giving a hacking cough before continuing, "…haven't been in command since I caught one in the gut. Talk to Findlay here. He's taken charge since 32nd street."

Findlay was caught off guard by the statement. The staff sergeant, however, simply shifted his gaze from Flense and to the Zone trooper, eyebrows raised slightly.

"That's you, son?" he asked. Findlay nodded, depolarizing his faceplate.

"Yessir. Sean Findlay, 34th heavy infantry," he said, then added with some embarrassment, "Private First Class, sir."

"Then congratulations, Sergeant Findlay," the staff sergeant smirked, "You just jumped two paygrades. Staff Sergeant Dante, 7th armored. Glad you could make it."

"Uh, thank you, sir," Findlay replied, still somewhat confused, "We've got a few wounded. Is there any place we can-"

"Level 4, section C," Dante smiled, "The nice thing about being in a parking garage is that everything's subdivided ahead of time," he stopped, smile falling off his face, "Are you wounded, sergeant?" Findlay had just handed Flense to a pair of Marines, and it took a moment before he realized Dante was referring to him.

"No, sir. Not that I'm aware."

"Good. Let me get you briefed, then. Welcome to the insurgency."

**And that's chapter two. R&R, anon accepted as always. Next chapter will follow pretty much immediately after this one in the in-story timeline. **


	3. Chain of Command

**Whoa. Tripled my reviews with a single chapter. Anyway, here's a fairly speedy update. Not too much to say besides that, though in response to Baynard's comment, there will be POV sequences for the occupying forces. And, without spoiling too much, not all of them will be turian, and a few names might be familiar...**

**December 1, 2157**

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

Dante led the newly promoted Sergeant Findlay to a subsection of the parking garage, where a branching room served as the officer's meeting area. Two inactive elevators sat to one side, and a folding table had been set up in the middle to accommodate a spread of blueprints, maps, and other tactical data. Similar information had been pinned, taped, or otherwise fastened to the walls, and one of the corners was occupied by a large radio rig, hooked up to a decidedly non-military power generator. It was active, but the only noise coming through was a low buzz that made it sound like there was a fly lurking somewhere in the room.

"I hope the reality of command isn't too disappointing. Most people expect a big board or something," Dante smiled humorlessly, gesturing to the four other people who were already inside the room, "Here, we might as well get introductions out of the way."

Of the four others in the room, none were wearing the bulky armor of Zone troopers, and Findlay towered over them as a result. The first two wore the standard body armor of the GDI Marine Corp, though that was where their similarities ended. One stood several inches over the other, sporting a shaved head and cold gray eyes, his face expressionless. The other had short black hair and some manner of tattoo creeping out from under the collar of his armor.

"That's Gunnery Sergeant Rios," Dante pointed to the first man, "And Staff Sergeant Salem," pointing to the second, "Both from the 82nd Marines." Rios regarded Findlay with a polite but nonetheless reserved nod. Salem smirked and raised his eyebrows. The unspoken message was simple enough: 'Misery enjoys company.'

The third man wore a simple gray flight suit and a cap. He had body armor covering his chest and back, but it was a significantly cut-down version of what infantry used. On one shoulder, he had the emblem of the GDI Air Corp, and on the other that of the 82nd Marines.

"Airman First Class Anders, pilot attached to the 82nd," Dante nodded to him. Anders, in turn, gave Findlay a two-fingered salute before speaking.

"In all honesty, I shouldn't be here," he shrugged, "But I brought an A-15 to the table, and that's worth a few extra bars." Findlay's eyes widened, impressed. The A-15 Orca was one of the most potent (and recognizable) gunships in the GDI arsenal. If Dante's irregular company had one, it was a significant advantage. Findlay's only question at that point was where they were storing it, but he held the question for later.

The last man in the room was, astonishingly, almost as tall as Findlay, in spite of the latter's hulking Zone armor. His helmet was under one arm, exposing his short-cropped hair and pale blue eyes. Findlay could plainly see the irregular pattern of the man's retinas, revealing his eyes to be cybernetically altered. Whether it was because he'd lost them, or undergone the procedure voluntarily, Findlay was unsure.

The man's armor made his role clear. Propaganda images were a fact of life living in GDI space, and there wasn't a child alive that couldn't recognize the bulk of a Mammoth tank or the silhouette of a Zone trooper. This man, however, stood head and shoulders above his comrades, even if his physical size still left him slightly smaller than Findlay. His armor was unadorned save for three markings: the GDI eagle on his right pectoral and helmet, and 'Steiner' stenciled on his left breast.

Sean Findlay had shared the battlefield with a graduate of the GDI commando program, but never been in the same room as one.

"And this is Specialist Locke," Dante gestured to the commando, "He works alone mostly, but hell if he isn't worth a platoon."

The commando remained silent. Findlay was thankful that his Zone armor concealed an involuntary shudder. It felt as if the commando's gaze was breaking him down into component parts for analysis.

"There's still one more. You've met him already, at least in part," Dante looked through the doorway, waiting for the final officer, "He was the one who pulled you and your men out of that tight spot in the street. Ah, here's the man of the hour." Findlay turned around, getting his first look at the Wolverine pilot who had as good as saved his life.

He wore a similar jumpsuit to Anders, but with a few noticeable differences. While Anders' was gray, his was olive drab, and the insignias on his shoulders marked him as a member of the Steel Talons' 7th armored company. He still wore his visored helmet, concealing the upper half of his face.

"Sergeant, this is Specialist Reese," Dante nodded to the newcomer as the latter undid the chin strap of his helmet, "Specialist, this is Sergeant Findlay. As I understand, you took out a tank for him."

"Consider it a welcoming gift," Specialist David Reese said dryly, removing his helmet and placing it under one arm, "34th Heavy, right? I knew a man named Findlay with the…" He trailed off, presumably because Findlay chose that moment to depolarize his faceplate.

"Well, he's a sergeant now," Findlay grinned, "Damn good to see you, Dave."

* * *

><p>"Hot damn, man," Findlay whistled, "I take back everything I said 'bout getting you a real set of armor. This one'll do fine."<p>

"Took out a tank with it, didn't I?" Reese smirked, "That's one more than you can claim."

"Drunk with power already," Findlay laughed, "I can pull rank on you now, y'know."

"I know. God help us all," Reese laughed as well, leaning against the side of his hunched Wolverine, "Never figured you for anything more than a grunt. No offense, though."

"None taken," Findlay replied, continuing to look over the Wolverine, "I would have thought that, too. But sarge seemed to think that I did well in the clutch, and I guess that's as good a test as any."

Following the briefing, Reese and Findlay had retreated to another level of the garage, this one dedicated to what vehicles the motley company had held onto. There were four Wolverines, one of them Reese's own, a single Mammoth tank, and two six-wheeled APCs. Unfortunately, the tank was as attention grabbing as a fireworks show, and difficult to deploy and withdraw quickly.

"Look, Sean, I'm…" Reese ran a hand through his short hair, brushing the tiberium nub in the process, "It's good to, uh…"

"Glad I found you, too, Dave," Findlay gave Reese a friendly punch to the shoulder. Had it not been for Reese's mutation-boosted muscle density and reflexes, the Zone trooper's already formidable strength, boosted by his armor, probably would have dislocated the joint.

"That sounds about right," Reese sighed, "We lost a lot of guys just getting here, and what we had left got split up. After a few days, it was easier just to assume 'dead until proven alive.'"

"Shit, story of my life. Or the past week, at least," Findlay nodded, "Went from fifty men to eighteen in a day. It's probably the only reason I got this rank bump. Most of the guys who'd be better for it are somewhere along Seventh Ave."

"Well, this'll be over soon enough," Reese answered, "Did you hear Garcia's speech?"

"Figured I'd be stuck in a fight when news finally came," Findlay laughed, this time without humor, "What'd he have to say?"

"Reinforcements are en route. We just gotta hold out until they get here."

"Consider it done," Findlay grinned, regaining his high spirit, "By now, there's enough of the 34th down here that the birds couldn't dig us out if they had a MARV battalion."

* * *

><p>"<em>Tusk, this is Executive, come in, Tusk.<em>"

Acting Captain Phillip Dante leaned over to the radio set and synchronized it with his earpiece before answering.

"Tusk here. Is that you, Volk?"

"_Glad to hear your voice, Dante_," Captain Dmitri Volkov replied, "_Looked like you had some heavy fighting near you._"

"Not just near," Dante shifted the paper tactical maps splayed out before him, "Try 'right on our doorstep.' Had an infantry company and armored support within spitting distance."

"_How'd you come out of it?_"

"With fifteen more men than I started with," Dante answered.

"_And I hope you'll share your newfound ability to raise the dead with the rest of us?_"

"No such luck, Volk," Dante smirked, "The birds were chasing a group of infantry down our street. We stepped in, and now they're with us."

"_You've got the devil's luck, Dante._"

"How're you holding up?" Dante asked. Volkov and his men were holed up in city hall, and had the added burden of the mayor, his staff, and other government workers. To the civilians' credit, none of them had fled during the initial invasion, but as admirable a gesture as it was, it meant the GDI troops had to tend to them while trying to hold back the aliens.

"_Could be better, could be worse_," Dante could practically hear Volkov shrug, "_It's a bunch of scared civies behaving exactly as you'd expect them to. We did get Talruum PD and security to bolster our numbers, but I'd take Marines over them any day._"

"How're Willis and Campbell faring?" There was a pause before the reply.

"_Campbell's fine. Just heard from him not ten minutes ago. I can't raise Willis._"

Dante cursed under his breath, hopefully below the communicator's range of perception. Long range communications might have still been blacked out, but short range was deemed secure enough for operation, allowing some degree of coordination inside the city. For the past week, Dante had been convening with Volkov, Willis, and Campbell, each man representing a significant force against the turians as they attempted to push into the city. John Willis had a reputation for being as tough as a Mammoth tank and twice as reliable. If he wasn't responding to allied transmissions, it either meant that there was serious communications disruptions, or…

Dante shook the thought from his head. There was no need for that sort of thinking, not now of all times. They were entrenched in familiar territory, out of the reach of the turian starships, and sporting stronger numbers than any of them had originally thought when they'd fallen back to the city. The 7th armored, 34th heavy infantry, and 82nd Marines were barely half of the GDI forces in Talruum. Most of the companies had been bloodied on their way to the city, to be sure, and heavy initial fighting had caused them to splinter and reform mixed companies, but the most important phase of the defense had already been accomplished. They were already inside the city, and there, Dante knew they could hold out.

"He'll be in contact soon enough," Dante dismissed the possibility of their comrade's death with an ease he wished he felt, "It's getting late. How are you for automated defenses?"

"_If there's one thing we got, it's those_," Volkov snorted, "_Defense turrets around the perimeter, and we laid out what mines we had on the roads leading in. Standard IFF on them all, in case you decide to be out and about._"

"Understood," Dante looked away from the radio, noticing that the commando Locke was standing at the doorway, waiting in perfect silence. How long he'd been there, Dante had no clue, but he could tell that he had business to discuss.

"We'll talk later, Volk. Tusk out."

"_Alright. Executive, over and out._"

The channel clicked shut, and Dante gestured for Locke to take a seat. The commando took a step into the room and snapped off a crisp salute, but remained standing.

"Something the matter, specialist?"

"No, sir," Locke replied, his voice a strange mixture of accents that Dante couldn't pick apart. It seemed to range from Russia to New Zealand, and only served to add to the general aura of almost-inhumanity that clung to the commando, "But I understand that Master Sergeant Willis has gone dark. Requesting permission to investigate, sir."

Dante thought for a few moments. He hadn't been exaggerating when he was describing Locke's abilities to Sergeant Findlay earlier that evening: the commando _was_ a veritable one-man platoon, possibly more. He was armed and armored with the best equipment GDI had to offer, and the commando program's 22% fatality rate spoke of the immense skill he possessed.

Still, those advantages could just as easily be flipped around. Locke was only one man, and bad luck could befall even the most skilled soldier. If Dante followed through on Locke's offer, he would be risking an asset that could not be replaced and would hurt his company's abilities significantly.

A few seconds passed as Dante weighed his options before he came to his conclusion.

"Permission granted," he answered, "I expect you back by daybreak at the latest. Understood, specialist?"

"Yessir," Locke gave another salute before turning on his heel and exiting the room. Dante suddenly noticed that in spite of the commando's armor and natural bulk, his footsteps made virtually no noise.

With that eerie reminder of a commando's ability, Dante returned to his charts. He updated the city map with a question mark alongside Willis' last known location. If the Master Sergeant was gone, was wanted to know it first hand, not through a wave of victorious turians strolling past what would normally be a well-defended location.

* * *

><p>As evening gave way to night, the turian offensive stalled. It was only natural: night fighting was dangerous and risky, and it was a time when the deck was stacked against the aliens. They were not just trying to take a hostile city occupied by a well-entrenched military. They were trying to do so against a species that they had not known existed a few weeks before.<p>

The turian war machine was disciplined, not stupid. It did not retreat, but it did not drive forward. Allowing the humans to dig themselves in deeper would be just as counterproductive as charging blind into their guns. Thus was the night broken by periodic chatters of automatic fire, punctuated occasionally by the dull _thump_ of exploding ordinance.

As evening gave way to night, Specialist Locke chose to launch his operation. Commandos were not taught arrogance for their skills: rather, they were more closely in tune with their limitations than most could ever hope to be. Locke was as formidable as any single soldier could be, but he never counted himself as anything more than that. He was one man, and one man could not afford to attract the attention of an army.

Locke scaled the side of the building, climbing with windowsills and outcropping masonry as easily as if it were a rock-climbing wall. His armor, like its lesser cousins throughout the GDI military, had an integrated jump pack, but until R&D could devise one that could fire silently and without lighting him up like a Roman candle, he would save it for times when stealth was no longer a priority.

He heaved himself onto the rooftop, unslinging his rifle and sweeping the area around him. He sincerely doubted that there would be rooftop sentries at such an early phase of an invasion, but assumptions could prove deadlier than booby traps in stealth ops.

Locke's weapon was just as specialized as his armor compared to their counterparts in standard infantry. The commando-issue Werewolf abandoned the plethora of weapon modules in favor of a few more potent designs, the primary of which was the rail carbine. It combined the punch of a rail gun with the rapid-fire capability of an assault rifle, finished with a suppressor fixed at the muzzle. Like the earliest weapon suppressors, it was far from the idealized 'silencer' that many developers had striven for. But in a warzone, it was invaluable. The muffling that it provided could, at the very least, give the impression of weapon fire that was much further off, muffled by distance.

That was assuming, of course, that Locke would need to use his weapon. If all went according to plan, the Werewolf would not let off a single shot. He moved quickly across the roof, continuing visual sweeps as he did. His helmet and modified eyes functioned together, running what he saw through half a dozen filters before it reached his brain. When it did, Locke viewed the world as clearly as if it were high noon.

With a quick leap, he cleared the gap between buildings and resumed movement on the next rooftop. He had plotted his path carefully: it was as direct as possible while still tracing along a series of relatively low buildings. Skyscrapers were too difficult to move between without the use of his jump pack, and this way, he could still keep above street level for the majority of his journey.

Locke froze mid-stride, dropping onto his stomach and rolling against the wall at the edge of the roof. Within seconds, something passed over the building with a hum of engines. Locke had seen a few of the alien gunships in the past week: fairly light, single-pilot vehicles, boasting mass accelerator cannons and missile launchers. They were surprisingly resilient for their size, but seemed primarily suited for recon duties.

_There it is_.

Locke felt the telltale prickle across his back that he'd come to associate with scanner sweeps. The gunship was scouting the rooftops in search of GDI troops. Locke counted out thirty seconds for the sound of the gunship's engines to fade, then fifteen more to assure it was not coming for another pass. After the time had elapsed, Locke rose to his feet and continued.

He had not been entirely confident that his armor's ECM would have worked against the aliens' technology, but this had been more than enough evidence for him. Commando armor cost more than most white-collar workers made in a decade, and not without reason. On one level, it was a condensed suit of powered armor, designed to provide maximum protection while amplifying his already high strength, speed, and reaction time.

The remainder of the suit's cost was in the form of electronics. Locke was virtually immune to electronic detection thanks to the array of sensors and transmitters woven into his armor plating. When the gunship had passed overhead, the armor had simply duplicated the rays of the scanner and fed them back to it, telling the pilot that the patch of roof where Locke hid was no different than any other blank patch of roof.

Locke crossed over to another rooftop, noting that he was no longer in what was hesitantly termed 'friendly' territory. This was a portion of the city the turians had moved through with little to no resistance, though the occasional scar of battle was still visible. A crater in the pavement, a still-smoldering car…

_And turians._

The aliens had set up an encampment at a broad four-way intersection. The roads were blocked off by modular barricades, and vehicles parked behind them, guns pointed down the roads.

At the center of the formation was an inert hovercraft resting on the asphalt, its six turbines unlit. Surprisingly for a vehicle of its size, it had only a light cannon for armament. Locke placed an eye to his rifle's scope and took a closer look at the hovercraft.

A ghost of a smile played a cross his lips for a moment. Towards the rear of the vehicle, an array of what could only be communications gear poked skyward. It was fairly compact, but that was to be expected. Locke figured that setting up a comm array was largely an insurance policy for the turians, making certain that the urban environment didn't interfere in the slightest with their communications.

Or to make sure the boots on the ground always had contact with the guns in orbit.

Locke's mind raced even as he began marking the locations of guards on his HUD. If this was indeed a relay station, he could potentially cripple (for a time) the turian ability to summon orbital bombardments at will. At the very least it would be a spanner in the works. There was sufficient defense around the hovercraft to suggest that it was valuable enough to warrant protecting, and that alone made it a target for Locke.

But…he had a mission already. Locke could tell that the formation wasn't going anywhere, and his return path would lead him by it yet again. He assigned it a navpoint on his HUD's map, then circled around it. He had to move an additional two blocks down from the encampment before he was confident he could cross the road undetected.

He passed more turian patrols once he'd ascended back to the rooftops. Sounds of combat were growing louder as he neared Master Sergeant Willis' last known location. If Willis and his company were engaging the turians, Locke wouldn't hesitate to join in the fray.

It was here, so close he could taste it, but everything ahead of him was obscured by smoke. Locke rested his Werewolf against the edge of the roof, switching helmet filters. The world cycled through various colors, before finally settling on a pale blue that left the smoke partially transparent, allowing him to see the combat below.

And for the first time in years, Locke was taken aback by what he saw.

* * *

><p>In the multi-story rubble of what had once been a department store, Master Sergeant Jon Willis and his men made their last stand. GDI Marines lay dead throughout the rubble, along with a handful of Zone troopers. The rubble, however, was a new feature: the turians had practically destroyed a side of the building to get at the men inside.<p>

Willis fired a blast from his Werewolf's ion cannon. The energy weapon triggered his target's shields, but energy weapons were not so easily halted by kinetic barriers. The shields flared, admitting enough of the ion blast to shatter the turian's assault rifle and mangle his three-fingered hands beyond recognition.

But for every turian brought down by the GDI's firepower, three more emerged from the surrounding streets. And with each passing second, the number of Marines and Zone troopers under Willis' command continued to drop, and he had no way to replenish their numbers as the turians did.

On the modern battlefield, there was a certain degree to which infantry companies could continue to fight without sustaining any lasting casualties. Kinetic barriers, after all, recharged if given the time, and Zone armor provided substantial protection to its wearers. Even basic Marine armor was a fair deal thicker than its turian counterparts. Thus, a trend most commonly seen among armored or mech divisions was also true for infantry. Armor and shields could hold off injury and death for only so long, and when that point was passed by, virtually any damage that was sustained was almost guaranteed to be crippling or fatal.

For Willis and his company, that point was long gone. Where he had once had nearly a hundred Marines and Zone troopers, there were fewer than fifty remaining, almost half of them Zone troopers. The turians were determined to remove Willis from cover, and after finding that they could not storm the building or effectively trade fire, they opted to remove the cover instead. Heavy weapons had rained on them, blasting away walls and ceilings, effectively carving the building down by a third. The only cover that it offered now was from the rubble that piled near the edges of floors, and that was nowhere near adequate.

A Marine twisted as a round struck his shoulder, then fell forward as another hit his shin. Both were stopped by his armor, but he had been dangerously close to the edge of the shorn level, and he tumbled over the side. He hit the ground below hard, and his jump pack had only just triggered when turian fire cut him down.

Another soldier struggled to hold a fallen Marine steady, even as the latter grasped the stump of his severed arm. His comrade shouted for a medic that Willis did not have a moment before a turian sharpshooter tore off half his face. He slumped over his wounded friend, broken helmet falling off his mutilated head.

"Top!" a Zone trooper shouted, grabbing Willis' attention, "They're coming through the back! Briggs says they can't hold the first floor much longer!"

"Anything on comms?" Willis fired another shot before ducking back behind the ruined wall, avoiding the focused retaliation from multiple turian troopers.

"Negative, sir," the soldier replied, wincing as more shots drilled into the thin barrier, "Birds must've set up some kinda jammer. We can't get anything but static."

"Keep trying," Willis risked exposing himself for another ion blast, but ducked back with a curse when his shields flared from enemy fire, "Try and raise Dante's company. Last I heard, they managed to save an Orca." Willis could tell that the Zone trooper didn't reply, even with the din of combat.

"Is that clear, private?" Willis raised his voice, glancing over at the trooper, "Keep trying until…" He trailed off, seeing that his words would only fall on deaf ears. The Zone trooper was leaning against the wall behind him, but the small hole in his polarized faceplate told Willis that the man was already dead.

* * *

><p>And at that moment, Master Sergeant Jonathan Willis snapped. Cut off from his comrades elsewhere in the city, watching as his men were cut down by the turians firing up in the street below, and their cover whittled away to practically nothing, a quick check confirmed that the only remaining soldiers on his side of the structure were Zone troopers. The last of the Marines had fallen. And now he had confirmation that there would be no reinforcements, and more turians were emerging to bolster the existing force by the minute.<p>

With one smooth motion, he dropped his Werewolf and drew his razor-edged combat knife. It was an oversized version of that carried by standard infantry, and seemed closer to a shortsword than a knife.

"Over the top!" he howled over the gunfire whizzing all around him, igniting his jump pack and sending himself hurtling toward the turian force.

There was a moment's hesitation among the Zone troopers. Twenty-three in all, each man was astounded as their CO hurled himself headlong at the enemy force before them. But that moment passed quickly: they were all pressed to their limits. In the back of each of their minds was a desire to die on their feet, not huddled behind the ruins of a department store. As it was, they would simply trade fire with the turians as they were cut down one by one, until none of them remained.

Instead, Willis gave them another way out. What use was their fury and hatred if they cowered behind cover that would not last? The twenty-three saw their commander hurtle into the jaws of death, and each man drew his own blade and followed Willis into the storm of fire.

Willis' command would have been more appropriate in the early days of trench warfare, where infantry would charge through gunfire and obstacles to overwhelm the enemy trench with sheer ferocity and numbers. The Zone troopers did not have numbers, not by a long shot.

But as over a score of two-meter armored giants raced on tongues of flame towards the alien lines, the unthinkable happened: the turian fire slackened. Whether it was surprise or fear, Willis and his men neither knew nor cared. Murder shone in every man's eye, and even the veterans among the turian ranks saw that this charge could not have been matched by anything short of a krogan.

Willis slammed into two turian soldiers. In his armor, he weighed close to half a ton, and his jump pack had shot him like a bullet into the unfortunate aliens. The pair were pulped inside their armor, dashed across the debris as Willis ground to a halt like an impacting meteor.

The moment repeated itself twenty more times as the remaining troopers made their first kills using only their mass and velocity. In a heartbeat, the Zone troopers were back on their feet, and the turians that remained had regained their bearings enough to open fire on the suddenly dire threat.

Mass accelerator rounds glanced off kinetic barriers as the Zone troopers charged, roaring the warcries of their native lands and terrible oaths against the aliens. Turians were lifted off their feet as mono-molecular knives the size of their forearms were plunged through their armor, tearing through them and hurling their lacerated remains aside.

If their knives were still buried in the bodies of the recently-killed, the Zone troopers used their augmented strength to continue their rampage. Turian soldiers were punched, elbowed, kneecapped, and bludgeoned, body armor cracking under the immense power of each blow, while kinetic barriers remained almost mockingly untouched by the assault, useless against anything that did not travel fast enough to trigger them.

One of the Zone troopers abruptly vanished from the waist up, his lower body crumpling to the ground amidst the turian dead. A turian light tank, obscured by the smoke, had managed to get a clear shot on the powered armor soldiers, its cannon defeating both his kinetic barrier and armor with one bolt.

"Kill it!" Willis barked, pointing his blade at the vehicle before swinging it in a vicious horizontal slash that all but decapitated a turian trooper.

The Zone troopers were all too eager to comply. Another shot raced from the cannon, but its intended target threw himself out of its path with a burst from his jump pack. A group of his comrades triggered their own jump jets, arcing towards the hovercraft and landing on it in a series of metallic _bangs_.

The GDI heavy infantry fell upon the turian craft like sharks on a wounded whale. Gauntleted hands grasped and ripped, pulling away whatever surface components of the war machine they could. Others pounded at the plating, fingers finding grips in viewports and tearing chunks from the hovercraft.

The pilot frantically juked his vehicle, trying to shake the marauding soldiers off. Of the six, one lost his hold, tossed by the thrashing vehicle to the ground. The tank skimmed over him, and the output of the six turbines immediately superheated the soldier's armor and burned him alive.

The others, however, did not falter. One tore the hatch from the turret with a mighty heave, hurling it aside before plunging his arm into the tank's body. It emerged a moment later, clutching one of the turian crew by the wide collar of his armor, and throwing him with the same ease he had the hatch. The turian landed amongst the other Zone troopers, and Willis watched with vindictive satisfaction as they tore him limb from limb.

The remaining troopers on the tank abruptly leapt from their positions, propelled further by their jump packs. A moment later, the tank detonated from within, consumed in orange flames and the blue tinged field that characterized the destruction of mass effect tech. One of the troopers had dropped a grenade inside the hull. Possibly several, judging from the size of the detonation.

By now, four of Willis' men were dead, and seven more had visible damage to their armor as reserve capacitors crackled to restore the shields. The smoke and dust was letting them run amok among the turians, but time was not on their side. The turians were returning fire more effectively as the discipline that so characterized their infantry took hold, ensuring that they would not break.

Willis himself had borne much of the heaviest damage. His faceplate was cracked, HUD flickering, and while his hands were stained with turian purple blood, multiple gashes on his armor were trimmed with blood of decidedly human origin. His reserve capacitor whined, boosting his shields back to optimal levels just as a fresh barrage of gunfire tore through the smoke.

"Forward!" he bellowed, feeling the euphoria of painkillers setting in as his suit's medical system tended to his wounds. He triggered his jump jets, rocketing deeper into the smoke and turian ranks. His men roared their approval and followed without hesitation, blades slick with turian blood and tongues baying for more.

* * *

><p>The assault lasted mere minutes, though to the Zone troopers and turians alike, it felt like hours. The juggernauts of the 34th heavy infantry claimed close to four times their number in enemy footsoldiers, along with three light vehicles and one tank.<p>

For the first time since training, Specialist Locke was in awe. He had arrived only just as the counter-charge began, but that was enough. His helmet's integrated recording device had captured the entire encounter, from the initial charge to the death of Master Sergeant Willis, who died crushing the helmeted head of a turian trooper even as fire from several more pierced his battered armor.

Willis fell backwards, landing on his back, arms splayed open. The turians were slow to confirm his death for fear that he had enough life left to claim another of their number.

As silently as he had arrived, Locke receded back into the night. He had completed his mission and still needed to return to Dante's company to give his report. There was a good deal of ground to cover, and not long to do it, especially if the turian presence increased in light of their Pyrrhic victory.

His eyes flicked to the clock built into his HUD. Dawn would break in a few hours. He would be able to return to the company well before his deadline. In light of that, his thoughts drifted to the comm setup he had passed in order to find Willis. Another quick check of his gear confirmed that he had enough det packs to level a city block.

Locke silently slid his combat knife from its sheathe. The clock was ticking, and there was killing to be done. Getting in and out of the encampment without detection would be preferable, but if he needed to leave any bodies behind, he figured there was no better way to honor Master Sergeant Willis than with cold steel.

And a massive explosion, of course. Willis would have approved of that, too.

**And that's chapter three. R&R, same deal as usual. Next chapter, we'll get one new character, Dante's motley crüe finally gets a name, and Anders gets cleared for takeoff. **


	4. Death From Above

**Bleh. First update in a few weeks too many. I've got some rather time-consuming things occupying the period when I'm usually writing, but I'll see what I can do about that. They'll be wrapped up by the end of next week, anyway, but until then, here's chapter four. **

**A few notes first: as mentioned last chapter, one new character. A lot of you _really_ want some POVs from the turian force, and I've not forgotten about that. Next chapter, you'll have just that, and then some. **

* * *

><p><strong>November 19, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

Colonel Miles Joson took another bite of what claimed to be beef ravioli. When mass effect technology had been cracked open and integrated across virtually all walks of life, whoever made military rations must have not gotten the memo. In spite of nearly a century and a half of groundbreaking advances and the most powerful military in human history, the GDI never seemed to evolve their rations beyond the MRE.

Nevertheless, Joson ate the meal, just as he had done so for nearly thirty years. He had eaten them as a junior officer on Earth when Tiberium threatened to make mankind extinct, and he planned to continue as long as he served with the GDI armed forces. No matter how much troopers complained of the food's quality, Joson had yet to see a man that they didn't grow on. After virtually subsisting on instant-rations for so long, civilian dining seemed inefficient at best and affluent at worst.

Joson had a pang of nostalgia for the days before he was a full colonel. All the enlisted men dined together, and most of the officers did the same. Joson was not among them. There was much to do as the commander of an arm of the Steel Talons, especially on a recently founded world. GDI had rested on its laurels before, and the enemy within had made them pay dearly each time.

He had taken part in the destruction of the Brotherhood of Nod, two years prior. It was somewhat deceptive to call it their destruction: the Brotherhood's formidable military had been largely crippled by the GDI's space program after the Mars discoveries. Only the most fanatical of Nod had remained when the GDI attacked, and even then, some likely chose to flee Earth alongside the other refugees, living to fight another day.

Joson's memory churned as he remembered the fighting he saw, alongside his newly assigned 7th Armored Company. For the first time in decades, the GDI forces outnumbered their Nod counterparts. It had been a slaughter, fueled by years of anger and contempt for the insurrectionists.

Vindication, that was the word. Or perhaps simply 'revenge' was appropriate. Nod had been a dangerous foe of GDI since its formation. There had been a time when they were able to put aside their differences, if given enough incentive to do so, and a powerful enough third party to focus their mutual aggression towards. But even then, they spent most of their mutual existence at each other's throats.

There could have been any number of final straws. The destruction of the GDSS _Philadelphia_, though it had been since rebuilt, was a likely suspect. The GDI had slackened its security, downsized its military arm, and suddenly the world was paralyzed as a Nod nuclear missile destroyed the single greatest sign of GDI authority.

Or perhaps it was the plight of the few remaining Blue Zones before the Mars discovery. The Brotherhood reveled in mankind's impending extinction, battering GDI defenses even as the Initiative struggled to keep the tiberium spread under control. Joson's father had served during that dark time, and he refused to talk about much of it. He had lost many friends, both on the battlefield and off.

His father had died long before the Mars discoveries. He had died thinking that not just the GDI, but all of mankind's days were coming to a close, even after he spent his entire life defending them. Joson was not a religious man, but if his father had somehow been watching as Joson's _Atlas_ crushed a wounded Nod mech under its mighty treads, he would have been happy. After Nod had shown its unchangeable nature, there was no mercy, no respite.

Somehow, Joson had finished his meal while he had been lost in nostalgia. He quietly disposed of the utensils and caught a glance at the framed pictures on the walls of his office. His eyes were drawn to them, though he had seen them many times, and again he found himself reflecting on the past.

First, a newspaper, announcing in block letters the halt of tiberium spread. In an era when virtually everything was recorded and transmitted electronically, many forgot the value of something as simple as paper. A genuine newspaper was hard to come by, but Joson knew where to look, and knew that the day was worth remembering.

Next, a propaganda poster, using one of the iconic images taken during the purging of Nod on Earth. It was a group of Marines, sitting on the body of a destroyed mech half buried in rubble.

Another poster, this one a dramatization of Joson's own iconic actions. All but the upper body and one arm of the 'Avatar' warmech had been pulled beneath the crushing treads of the MARV, and its remaining arm was reaching uselessly forward, as if hoping it could yet pull itself free.

As a member of the Steel Talons, Joson could appreciate the power a mechanized walker represented. The Steel Talons were a relatively small branch of the GDI, especially after the general military had largely abandoned mechs for their supposed looming obsolescence. There was only so much that could be improved, they reasoned, and focused R&D funding elsewhere. The Steel Talons had been almost exclusively responsible for keeping mechs in the GDI active service, but as much as Joson loathed to admit, it was Nod that reaffirmed what the Steel Talons stood for. Nod created mechs unlike any GDI had ever seen, and shown naysayers the potential that mechs possessed. With that, the Steel Talons cemented their position in the GDI and secured their future, even if the general military did not reintegrate walkers nearly as fully as the Steel Talons did.

As far as Joson was concerned, Nod had two legacies: a harmless cult, and a mighty GDI. Nod waged four wars against the Global Defense Initiative, and the fourth held at stake the continued existence of the human race. The GDI diverted valuable funding from researching tiberium counters in order to keep the marauding Nod from overrunning their few remaining safe havens. Even with all that was at stake, Nod saw nothing but an advantage, something else to weaken the GDI. The lesson had been simple: never again. Never again would GDI be weak, either intentionally or unintentionally. When they disarmed, Nod placed a gun placed to their heads. When GDI struggled to save mankind from the tiberium expansion, Nod forced them to fight handicapped.

Never again would the GDI trust peace, because doing so only brought war.

Joson checked his watch. It was nearly time for the week's briefing. He had only a few points to go over with the officers of the company, none of which were terribly pressing, but it was procedure. He picked up a data slate, opening the file that held the subjects of discussion and reviewing them.

Joson stood up and walked to the door, placing a finger on the switch as he prepared to step out. He paused and looked back over his office once more and smiled. If his father was indeed watching, Joson liked to think that he was happy.

With that, Joson opened the door, flicked off the lights, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>December 13, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

Nineteen days had seemed a lifetime. The turians had begun setting up inside the city limits. With each passing day, their organized withdrawal at nightfall took them less and less distance away from the GDI troopers.

Acting Captain Phillip Dante scrolled through various supply lists on his data slate. For the most part, his patchwork company was not lacking any major necessities. As a precaution, the previous day he ordered the men to drop back to half-rations. Dante had been assured that the effect on combat effectiveness would be negligible, and the move effectively doubled their food supply.

Dante smirked when he saw the title of the list: 'Frank Company munitions and consumables.' From Dante's point of view, that finally made the nickname official. One of the officers had referred to their mixed group as a 'Frankenstein company' two days prior, and the words had leaked beyond the officer's room to the troops. It was quickly abbreviated to 'Frank Company,' and the soldiers seemed to like the sound of it. Already, Dante had seen troops with the title etched alongside their traditional company emblems.

It was a complete fluke that actually worked out quite well. After close to three weeks of periodic fighting and living out of an underground garage, Dante could plainly see the signs of wear on the men and women under his command. He'd anticipated factional divisions among them if things started to go particularly badly, but the main factor in that would have been their differing companies. Now, they had a single name to put themselves under, and Dante had no intention of looking that gift horse in the mouth.

"Hey, cap, got a sec?" Dante looked up from the screen to see Sergeant Findlay, clad in his bulky Zone armor. Sergeant Flense's trust had not been misplaced: Findlay had performed beyond expectations, even with the added challenge of leading a mixed unit.

"I think I can spare a few," Dante nodded, "Something to report?"

"Yeah, it's about Tennyson's mech," Findlay jerked a thumb over his shoulder, though the Wolverine he referred to was on a different level, "We couldn't get it back online. Sea…erm…Specialist Reese says the best we can do is strip it for parts. The others'll probably be hurting for 'em eventually."

"Shame it couldn't be saved," Dante sighed, then shrugged and began to correct the information on his date slate, "But alright. Tell Reese to go ahead."

"Yessir," Findlay gave a salute, but remained in the room. Dante noticed this and looked back up from his slate.

"Anything else, sergeant?" Dante raised an eyebrow. Findlay shifted uncomfortably where he stood.

"There's a civie looking for you, sir," Findlay responded, "Not you, specifically, but she wants to see the CO. Won't talk through anyone, either, sir."

"Is she still here?" Dante asked.

"Yessir, she is," Findlay nodded, "We didn't let her past the gates, but she's still there. The guards are gettin' a bit twitchy over it." Dante put aside his data slate, more curious than annoyed by the development.

"I'll deal with her. You give Specialist Reese the green light for his project."

"Sir, yes, sir," Findlay saluted a second time, this time ending it with his departure. Dante took a few seconds to straighten his uniform and put on his cap, then left as well, moving towards the entrance of the facility whereas Findlay had gone deeper to the vehicle bay. Along the way, Dante received various greetings and salutes, most of which he answered with a nod or an 'at ease.' The GDI infantry were hard at work maintaining weapons and armor, moving supplies, and, closer to the entrance, setting up fallback positions in the event the 'gatehouse' was overrun. Dante could hear the argument taking place long before he could see the participants, identifying both voices as female immediately.

"…and _I_ said you'll wait right here, and unless you want to tell us what-"

"And I told _you_, private, this is an important matter. As convenient as it might be to let you 'pass it on' to him, I'd prefer to tell him myself."

"And I'll be glad to listen," Dante answered, rounding the last support pillar and approaching the bickering duo. It was easy enough to see what Findlay had meant by 'twitchy.' Lance Corporal Laura Patterson was not known for her patience, and the civilian appeared to be a few words away from getting her neck wrung by the Zone trooper's armored hands.

"The mysterious 'captain,' I hope?" the civilian turned to him. Her brown hair was drawn back into a gray-streaked ponytail, and there were some signs of wrinkling at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was not terribly old, but clearly older than Dante or Patterson. In spite of this, Dante could see that in spite of the marks of age, she still retained a fair portion of the beauty she undoubtedly held in her youth.

"Captain Phillip Dante…" he stopped for a moment, then added, "…Frank Company. What seems to be the problem?" Patterson snorted, catching a glare from the civilian, possibly perceiving some undetected insult in the choice of words.

"Doctor Katherine McCarthy," she introduced herself. She glanced at the ground for a moment, suddenly seeming nervous or embarrassed in place of her previous demeanor, "I, uh, live in the building that normally uses this garage."

"I hope you're not looking for your car," Dante gestured behind him, "A lot of them aren't in great shape." He was only half joking: a fair number of cars _had_ been used as barriers or as fodder for spare parts.

"Nothing of the sort, regrettably," McCarthy's previous confidence returned, "I was not exaggerating when I told your…subordinate…" she said the word slowly, as if she was using it in place of a different, less-kind word, "…that the matter was highly important for you to hear of."

"Alright," Dante nodded, "Care to follow me? I think Lance Corporal Palmer had to disarm a few traps to let you through. I'm sure she'd like to get them back up."

"Ah. Of course," McCarthy agreed quickly, stepping through the parted cargo haulers that served as a 'gate.' The metal shutters at the top of the ramp were already closed, but they only offered visual cover. The haulers presented a physical impediment to anyone who wanted to get in by force.

"Do you know how many people are still in your building, doctor?" Dante asked as they walked.

"Somewhere between two and three hundred," McCarthy answered, sidestepping a GDI-emblazoned supply crate as if it were a carcass, "I'm here on their behalf, in part."

"Here we are," Dante gestured to the doorway leading to the ops center, "What's the other 'part' you're alluding to?" McCarthy followed him into the room.

"It's concerning…"

The words died on her lips as she froze mid-stride. Dante stared quizzically at her, wondering what was the matter. In seconds, it appeared that the blood had drained from her cheeks.

_She's afraid_, Dante thought, opening his mouth to ask her what was wrong. He stopped only when he finally followed her gaze, noticing for the first time that they were not alone in the room.

Specialist Locke sat in a far corner, staring impassively back at the petrified civilian. Dante still hadn't grown used to Locke's tendency to appear out of thin air in spite of his stature, and was well aware of the eerie sensation that his attention brought on. His ghostly blue eyes always seemed invasive, as if they were laying bare their target's every misdeed and transgression.

"Dr. McCarthy, this is Specialist Locke," Dante broke the uncomfortable silence with an introduction. Locke blinked, and the tension in the air seemed to evaporate.

"Ma'am," he gave a nod as the color returned to her face, then looked back to Dante, "Would you prefer privacy, sir?"

"Only if the doctor thinks it necessary," Dante looked over at the still-shaken McCarthy, "Do you mind his presence, doctor?"

"No, it's…it's fine," she finally said, taking a deep breath, "What matters is that you hear it. It's about the turians. Have their attacks been waning at all over the past few days?"

"Some, yes," Dante nodded, "I've heard similar reports from other companies. It's given us a good chance to focus on digging in. How'd you know about that?"

"It was somewhat of a guess," McCarthy reached into the folds of her jacket, "The turians have been busy doing other things." She cast a nervous glance at Locke. The commando seemed unbothered by her movement, but McCarthy noticed that his hand was resting on the grip of his holstered sidearm. Whether it had been there since she had walked in or if she simply didn't see the move, she couldn't be sure. Neither was particularly comforting.

"They're clearing out buildings as they move into the city," McCarthy drew a datapad out of her jacket, offering it to Dante who accepted it, "As they move the people out, they load them onto dropships and…" she trailed off with a sigh.

"I'm not really sure what happens after that. From the looks of it, they're transported out of the city, but I can't say where." Dante activated the datapad, watching the relatively low-resolution depiction of what McCarthy was describing. From the angle and quality, it looked like the footage was taken from a security camera mounted on an adjacent building's exterior. Dante was curious how a doctor had gotten her hands on such footage, but didn't press the issue.

"Any idea of motivation?" Dante glanced up from the video, "Somehow I doubt they're doing this out of the kindness of their hearts."

"We…I can't say," McCarthy replied, "Everything we know about their society is purely speculative, but if the discipline they show is any indicator, I would guess that they're trying to simplify the conflict."

"That would make sense," Dante admitted, "It removes any possible targets except the enemy, prevents resistance from the civilian population…"

"Even if they're transporting these citizens to five-star hotels, you can see why this has us worried," McCarthy said. Dante thought for a moment, then came to the same conclusion McCarthy had.

"They're stepping up their campaign," he cursed, "They're freeing themselves to wage a better war."

"And even if we _wanted_ to be herded away by these aliens," McCarthy said, "It's not like they'll be attempting these forced evacuations so close to a known enemy position," she stopped, then added, "That enemy being you, captain."

"I'll take this into consideration. Thank you, doctor," Dante closed the datapad, offering it back to McCarthy, "You're very in-tune with military gestures for a civilian. Were you ever in the service?" Dante guessed that the answer was 'no' from the way she held virtually all things military at arm's length, but he asked nonetheless.

"No, I wasn't," she confirmed, accepting the datapad, "I've seen them in action before, but that's the extent of it. And that was years ago."

"Fair enough," Dante nodded, "I'll see you out and present this data to my staff. If you spot any other changes, I'll arrange for the guards to let you through."

The walk back to the gates was in relative silence, save for the general commotion that always filled the garage. At a gesture from Dante, the cargo haulers parted, and McCarthy departed with a curt nod to the captain.

"Dante to unit commanders," Dante pressed a finger to his commbead, "Meet me in the ops center. We've got some possible complications."

* * *

><p>Katherine McCarthy's apartment was dimly lit, but that was the way she liked it. She had grown up on the essentials while on Earth, and that meant being conservative with virtually every commodity, no matter how abundant it might appear. Talruum's power grid was still up, but McCarthy had several portable generators at the ready should power be cut.<p>

Her computer setup consisted of three screens, arrayed so that she could look between them with relative ease. Each managed different incoming and recorded data, none of which she wanted to neglect. It was a taxing effort, but it was this diligence that had brought the turian 'evacuation' of citizens to her attention.

She sat down at the desk and the screens, sensing her presence, rose several levels of illumination from their dimmed state. Her timing proved perfect: a new window opened on the center screen, indicating an incoming message.

**Has the eagle been warned?**

McCarthy sighed with mild amusement. The channel was completely secure, a task which was constantly tended to by the right screen. There was no real need for code within communication, but a few of her allies had a penchant for the melodramatic.

_Yes, I gave them the footage_, she typed, _The captain is a bright one. He picked up the implications quite quickly. _

**Can the nest brave the hunters?**

_For a time, at least_, McCarthy typed, ignoring the code her colleague was using, _They're well-equipped and remarkably cohesive considering the circumstances. I saw at least three different unit badges, but they seem to identify as a single company_.

**How sharp are their cla…oh, forget it. Did you see any equipment manifests?**

McCarthy smiled at the abrupt change of language, and typed her reply.

_I wasn't so lucky. I saw Zone troopers and Marines, but no sign of vehicles. The captain said they were stripping cars for parts, so I imagine they have at least a few light vehicles around somewhere. _

**Eh, alright. The guys here are pretty well set up, too. Lots of Marines and Zoners, and two Mammoths. City hall's already got some sentry guns, too, so they should be set for anything short of a bombardment. **

_There's another thing, too. They have a commando_.

**Shit. Nothing happened, right?**

_No, nothing. It was just surprising to see one here. _

**Step carefully, Kat. All he needs is to **_**think**_** he smells something suspicious, and he'll take out your whole floor to be on the safe side. **

_I'll be fine. Focus on your own problems. _

**Sure thing. Signing off. **

The window closed, and McCarthy leaned back in her chair. He was right: a commando had the potential to cause worlds of trouble, and the odds of that happening were even higher with the situation as serious as it was.

Now, it was a matter of waiting. The turians had slowed their assault, but as both she and the GDI captain had guessed, it was probably only to prepare for a renewed attack. The worst fighting was yet to come, and considering the death toll thus far, that idea frightened McCarthy.

* * *

><p>"…and that's the size of it," Dante unhooked the data slate from the holographic projector, removing the video footage that had been floating over the table of the ops room, "Just knowing about this is a stroke of luck, but I don't want to sit around until the turians wheel in their big guns."<p>

"A ground assault would be risky," Gunnery Sergeant Rios grunted, "My Marines can get in and out easily enough, but with the civvie groups they keep bringing out, the birds might as well be using them as shields."

"And it's pretty damn far off for infantry," Staff Sergeant Salem chimed in, "There are at least two enemy positions that could cut off our escape route once we make contact, and that's just from positions we know about."

"Both valid points, and we've got defenses to keep in mind," Dante added to both statements, "If we expect to do any real damage, we'd need to send more men than I'm willing to dispatch from defenses here. And two of the Wolverines are still getting patched up, if I understand correctly." Specialist Reese confirmed the remark with a simple nod.

Findlay and Locke were largely silent, acknowledging that their presence was merely a formality as officers. Findlay's Zone troopers were less maneuverable than Rios and Salem's Marines, even if they sported more firepower, and Locke was more suited for demolition and recon, neither of which were terribly applicable to the current task. Leaning against one of the walls, the seventh and final officer decided that was his cue to speak.

"I've got an idea," Airman First Class Anders smiled knowingly, "Do we have the coordinates of this footage?"

"We do," Dante responded, "They're probably finished with that building by now, but if they're moving systematically, they won't be far off."

"Perfect," Anders continued to smile, an expression that was becoming more frightening by the second, "Permission to take the A-15 up?"

"Depends on what you plan to do," Dante answered, walking toward the door, "Explain to me on the way to the pad."

* * *

><p>For almost all nineteen days of the conflict, Anders had been effectively 'grounded,' reduced to maintaining his vehicle and contributing what he could during the staff meetings. This time, however, he had both a way to get himself back in the air and, more importantly, disrupt the turian forced evacuation.<p>

Dante and Anders walked for nearly twenty minutes. Anders relayed his plan to the acting captain until the pair had reached Frank Company's improvised hangar. It took as long as it did simply because the only place they could store the gunship was on the apartment's helipad, which conveniently sported a retractable dome cover for protection from the elements.

Dante thought for a few moments, glancing between Anders, the A-15, and the tally marks etched alongside the cockpit of the gunship. Finally, Dante nodded. He suppressed a shudder as a grin spread across Anders' face, like a shark that had spotted a lone swimmer.

"Just bring it back in one piece," Dante advised, gesturing to the A-15 even as Anders popped open the canopy and jumped into the pilot's seat, "We've only got one of these."

* * *

><p>The A-15 Orca, like the Mammoth tank, was one of the most recognizable vehicles of the Global Defense Initiative's arsenal. As a result, its chassis' appearance remained largely unchanged despite a century and a half of improvements, most of which coming after the discovery of mass effect technology. Its telltale silhouette was a powerful psychological weapon, and one that the GDI was not so foolish to forsake.<p>

Anders slid his neurohelmet over his head, waiting as it linked with the gunship. After a few moments, it did so, and Anders felt a sensation like cold water being poured slowly over his brain. It subsided after a few moments more, and Anders began the remainder of the A-15's startup sequence.

For most of its service life, the Orca made use of a pilot and copilot, but the integration of the neurohelmet allowed it to be operated with only one crewman. It allowed the pilot to interface seamlessly with the Orca's drive and weapon systems, giving him a range of perception that matched whatever the Orca's sensors and hull-mounted cameras could see.

It was not without its faults, though. Many Orcas still used two-man crews on the basis that the neurohelmet had the potential to cause various psychological issues in its users after extended use. The expanded range of perception was so great that many pilots referred to it as a 'god's eye view.' Fittingly, some pilots developed psychoses resembling messiah complexes from the sense of omniscience, while others went into sensory 'withdrawal' when forced to return to their normal, inferior senses.

Even if Anders didn't _completely_ welcome the use of the neurohelmet, he didn't have much choice in the matter. He had no copilot available, and piloting an Orca on a combat mission solo via manual controls was ungainly at its best and dangerous at its worst. With a thought, turned to action by the neurohelmet, the twin VTOL turbofans began to spin, building to a roar in a matter of seconds. Like the treads on GDI tanks, the rotors were simple devices considering the advanced hardware they carried, but they were more reliable and dramatically less expensive than high-tech counterparts. High-tech went hand-in-hand with high-maintenance, and without conventional repair depots, such sacrifices were godsends.

The domed roof cracked open at its center, receding in either direction to expose the dark skies above the building. Anders primed the weapon systems, feeling a sense of satisfaction as his hands suddenly felt the weight of the A-15's substantial firepower. An original fault of the A-15 was the inflexibility of its arsenal: it had the potential to carry a nose-mounted 30mm autocannon and an assortment of missiles and rockets on its short wings, but both could rarely be carried at the same time due to the significant weight it added to the craft, raising fuel consumption to unreasonable rates and decreasing maneuverability.

Mass effect technology had changed that. Not only was the weaponry lighter, but the Orca's carrying capacity was increased, too. Some of this newfound space was dedicated to shield generators and other defense systems, but there was more than enough to equip each A-15 with the weapons to face down virtually any rival on the battlefield short of dedicated air-to-air ships, even if its primary role was still that of a traditional gunship.

The dome gave a dull _thud_ as it finished opening and settled into its housing. With practiced ease, he raised the turbofans' output to lift the gunship from the helipad. Anders gave a jaunty wave to the engineers below, most of them shouting encouragement that was drowned out by the ever-increasing roar of the turbofans.

The Orca cleared the top of the helipad, tilting forward and leaving the relative safety of the building offered by concealment. Anders instantly felt the surge of power and pride he always felt at the controls of the gunship, now more so than ever. To his knowledge, he was the only Orca pilot from the 82nd's air support to make it to the city, and one of the few to even preserve his craft when an orbital bombardment ravaged their base.

His field of vision expanded as his elevation rose, and his prospective targets came into sight. The turian dropships followed the same angular design that influenced every one of their vehicles observed thus far, though they were noticeably (and justifiably) more ponderous than their gunships and hovercrafts. Anders' mental impulses highlighted each dropship that he could see. There were quite a few of them, and he didn't even have a complete view of the city. Unfortunately, what would normally be a 'target rich environment' was restricted by the mission the prospective targets were carrying out.

Anders instantly ruled out any dropships that were in the process of moving away from the city's center. Those were the ones almost assuredly carrying human cargo, and Anders had no intention of butchering his fellow man as part of his mission. Other dropships, however, were moving in just the opposite direction: from the outskirts of the city back into the urban center. In all likelihood, those ships were either picking up their first load of civilians, or on their way back from dropping one off.

And as such, Anders could be reasonably confident that they carried nothing but turians. He picked one target, rapidly descending as he mentally switched off weapon safeties. Crosshairs superimposed themselves over the dropship, and after a moment burned gold with a solid lock.

To the turian pilot's credit, he sensed the new threat as Anders opened fire and began to try and juke the lock. Unfortunately, the dropships were by no means built for maneuverability, and Anders had hunted far more elusive prey during his military career.

His chin-gun opened up as twin missiles streaked from his wings, corkscrewing toward their target. He had automatically formed a firing solution that would allow for the autocannon to wear down the dropship's kinetic barriers before the missiles would hit, and it worked like a charm. The barrier held until the first missile struck, but the impact alone broke the weakened shields and failed to detonate the missile in the process. The first hit, followed immediately thereafter by the second. Fire erupted from the twin impact points, and the mortally wounded dropship turned on its side as it plummeted from the sky. It hit the street below and was consumed in a fireball that lit up the night, officially ending whatever aspects of 'stealth' that Anders' mission might have possessed.

The second dropship had seen the demise of the first and managed to turn around by the time Anders sent it, too, falling to earth like an artificial meteor. It tore a gash in the side of a building as it fell, creating a rain of broken glass on the street below. Anders winced, but the damage was superficial. The building held easily, and any civilians who might have evaded the forced evac remained safe deeper in the structure.

Anders had drawn a bead on a third by the time the turians retaliated. The warbling alarm of incoming hostiles hampered his concentration, but he still managed to wound the dropship before the alien gunships entered play. The arrogance that inherently took hold during combat flights caused Anders to let out a short, barking laugh at the sight of the new 'threats.'

From their design, the single-man gunships were designed with infantry support in mind, not air-to-air combat, and even then they paled in comparison to the A-15. Two were converging on Anders, but it didn't much matter to Anders. The first one to close the distance between them let off a pair of missiles that left blue contrails as they raced at Anders. He twisted the Orca from their path, trusting his anti-missile system to take care of them if they still held their lock. To his surprise (and amusement), the rockets continued their straight path, confirming Anders' belief that the gunships were woefully unequipped for this fight. Bringing dumb-fire rockets to an aerial battle was akin bringing a knife to rob a gun store.

Anders had no such issue in his armament. He felt no small satisfaction as a pair of his own missiles tore through the night sky, both dead on target thanks to their tracking systems. The first detonated against the gunship's kinetic barriers, breaking them just in time for the second to strike. Ironically, the turian was saved because the Orca's air-to-air missiles were built to destroy far heavier crafts: the missile pierced the gunship and tore out the other side, streaking away unexploded. The pilot struggled vainly to stay aloft in spite of his craft having been effectively gutted by the missile and plummeted in a smoking spiral.

The second gunship learned from the loss of its compatriot, letting loose a stream of mass accelerator fire. The Orca's kinetic barriers sparked, but held easily. In response, the A-15's chin-gun tracked the turian gunship, unleashing its own salvo of automatic fire, following it up with a guided missile. Unfortunately for the turian pilot, whatever structural weakness that had kept the first gunship from detonating outright did not appear again. Between the high-caliber fire from the chin-gun and the impact of the anti-air missile, the gunship vanished in flames and shrapnel.

But for all the carnage he was causing, and even through the rush of the neuro-link, Anders knew that his window was closing. The turian military seemed to have weapons for all occasions, and the lack of anti-air weapons and crafts was most likely a result of their simply not being any target for them. Even if the turian technique of lightning-fast attacks of overwhelming force wasn't working to full effect in the urban confines of Talruum, it still meant that they would likely have air-to-air fighters scrambled within minutes of Anders' Orca presenting itself as a threat.

Anders could feel his limit approaching. It had been a good flight: two dropships destroyed, another badly damaged, and two gunships down to top it off. Turian efforts to clear the city would be slowed, not necessarily because of the three disabled dropships, but because caution inevitably slowed any process. They knew now the GDI had air power, and whatever precautions they took to compensate would delay them.

It didn't much matter if Anders had the only Orca in the city. He wasn't entirely sure he was, but if there were any others, they were grounded, and they didn't have enough collective numbers to form even a single wing. But as long as the turians feared that the GDI troops had aerial assets they had yet to deploy, Anders' job was done.

Firing a few neurons, Anders triggered the release of three drones from the belly of the A-15. Each was no more than a meter across, but capable of flight over whatever time its fuel supply lasted. More importantly, all three came equipped with speakers that emulated every sound that characterized an Orca, from turbofans to autocannon fire, and generated a high enough heat signature to at the very least make it difficult to distinguish between Orca and drone on thermal imaging.

The three sped off in opposite directions, giving off a roar just as convincing as the A-15's turbofans. Anders powered down nonessential systems, hoping that the drones would provide him adequate cover under which he could retreat. To the naked eye, it was clear enough that they were not A-15 Orca gunships, but the cloudy night was on Anders' side. And any anti-air assets that managed to reach the city before he was safely docked would have infantry reports of flying objects giving off the same sounds as his Orca to conflict with any reports they might already have.

The domed helipad of the hotel was in sight. It would wait until the last possible moment to open, and rightfully so. If anything saw the movement, it would give away Anders' location as surely as gunfire. Multiple radar bleeps announced that the turians had indeed signaled for air support, and Anders doubted that they would be as woefully equipped as the gunships.

One of the drones vanished from his display screen. A moment later, he heard the distant _thump_ of an explosion through the Orca's exterior mics. Anders wasn't sure if the turians had used ground-based batteries to take it out, or if the turian fighters had already arrived. If the latter, he had to hurry. He eased down toward the dome, which now cracked open.

One of the Orca's turbofan mounts scraped the edge of the parting dome. Anders was trying to land the A-15 before the done had fully opened, and was barely squeezing through. Still, even if he landed in time, he had to allow for the closing of the dome.

The A-15 extended its landing spines, touching down far less gently than Anders would normally deem acceptable. Already regretting the inevitable headache his next move would give him, Anders jerked the neurohelmet off his head and swung the canopy open. Only years of flying experience kept the disorientation that came with the neurohelmet's abrupt removal under control, and he unstrapped himself as he shouted to the crewman around the helipad.

"Get it shut! Close the dome!" he ordered over the dying whine of the turbofans. The men understood immediately, and the halves of the dome ground to a screeching halt halfway through their normal opening procedure before forcing themselves to close. The override was undoubtedly hell on the mechanism, but that would be a moot point of a turian fighter decided to send a rocket in after them.

The halves slammed together, and for a time, all was silent. There was no assured way of telling whether a turian pilot had seen the dome close. If the had, Anders and the other men present would know soon enough, most likely in the form of an air strike cracking open the dome and killing them all.

Thirty seconds passed, and Anders heard the building drone of an aircraft reach a pitch, then recede. Several more seconds passed, and at that point, Anders was confident the enemy vehicle hadn't launched any sort of attack on them.

With the immediate danger apparently past, Anders felt the full effect of ripping himself from the enhanced perception of the neurohelmet without proper disconnection procedures. He boots had only just hit the helipad when his vision began to swim and a building nausea threatened to claw its way up his throat.

Anders stood on swaying legs for a few long moments, then fell face-first onto the helipad. Fortunately, a crewman managed to break his fall, supporting the pilot enough to keep him upright.

"How'd it go?" the soldier asked, seemingly oblivious to Anders' half-closed eyes and rapidly paling complexion.

"'S fine," he managed to spit out, attempting to add something else to the statement. Instead, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a stream of bile and rations, and Airman First Class Anders blacked out.

* * *

><p>"I gotta hand it to the flyboy. Out and back without anyone chasing him through the door," Staff Sergeant Elliot Salem leaned back in a folding chair, running a combat knife across a gray whetstone. It was a primitive form of sharpening, and it likely didn't make the monomolecular blade any sharper, but Salem did it largely out of habit. There had been a time, after all, before he'd been with the Initiative Marine Corp, and not all knives were as potent as the current incarnation of the Ka-Bar.<p>

"Don't congratulate him yet," Gunnery Sergeant Tyson Rios replied, not looking up from his partially disassembled Werewolf rifle, setting aside several modules, "If any of them saw him land, we'll be up to our necks in birds before the night's up."

"Oh, relax," Salem snorted, "Even if they did, what're they gonna do? More of the same? It ain't worked so far, no reason it'd start now."

"It was 'more of the same' that killed Gunny Willis," Rios shot back, impatience flaring for a moment before his calm demeanor returned, "Locke's footage was clear enough. They didn't send in anything we haven't seen before, and we both know how that turned out."

There was a long period of silence between the two. There had been more GDI soldiers at Willis' location than Frank Company had, and they were killed to the last man. Findlay and his Zoners had taken the loss particularly hard. Willis and most of his men were from the 34th Heavy Infantry, and their loss meant that a solid percentage of the 34th wouldn't be seeing the end of the conflict.

"Here," Salem broke the silence and drew out a collapsible cup, pouring amber liquid into it from a silver flask before handing it to Rios. Rios hesitated a moment, then accepted it.

"Here's to Anders," Salem raised the flask, "_Khleb za khleb, krov za krov_."

"…you speak Russian?" Rios raised a surprised eyebrow.

"Enough for a decent toast," Salem took a slug from the flask. Rios shrugged, draining his own cup.

"I'll drink to that."

* * *

><p>Reese couldn't help but feel sympathy pains as he helped dismantle an otherwise inoperable Wolverine. Its pilot, Lance Corporal Dean, had taken part in the initial work out of respect for his war machine, but had since excused himself to another part of the garage. Reese didn't blame him: mech pilots were even more attached to their vehicles than airmen. Reese didn't know a single Wolverine pilot from the 7th Armored who couldn't launch into an extensive tale of how his mech got each scar on its hull, or recount each kill mark that lined the cockpit.<p>

Unfortunately, they didn't have much choice in the matter. The recently-christened Frank Company had four Wolverines and none of the usual repair depots that were required for regular maintenance. It was unspoken but accepted that whichever of the four mechs sustained critical damage first would be the one to provide spare parts for the others. For most men, such a plan was unfortunate but necessary.

For Reese, it felt like cannibalism.

He hopped down from the side of the Wolverine, walking over to his own mech a short distance away. Come Christmas Eve, Frank Company (or at least its components) will have officially been in combat for a full month. Ironically, the worst of the damage had been sustained in the first week, when the turians had been pushing the hardest and the GDI had been fighting in the open. There was barely a square foot on the Wolverine that wasn't scraped, dented, or otherwise marred.

There were other marks of combat, too, but obtained outside of the actual fighting. PFC William Thatch was something of an artist, with the primary emphasis being on 'something.' He was crouched by his Wolverine, which had been adorned with a pattern resembling orange and yellow flames, adding a new 'tattoo' to his mech's stocky leg.

"New one already?" Reese approached his comrade. Thatch paused his work, standing and stretching his back. He wore a small respirator over his mouth and nose, and had a spray gun in his right hand. He pulled off the respirator and let it hang around his neck by its strap.

"Just about finished, too," he smirked, gesturing to the armored leg, "Take a look." Reese couldn't help but smile at the new insignia. It was a square green head with half-closed eyes and stitches running across its boxy forehead. Two gray bolts jutted from either temple, and the only part that seemed unfinished was a corner of the skull that was not yet painted green.

"Frankenstein, huh?" Reese raised his eyebrows, "Not bad, Will."

"Frankenstein's monster, technically, but that's just splitting hairs," Thatch shrugged, "I did it on a couple Zone suits already. You want one?"

"The man does good work, Dave," Sergeant Sean Findlay put in, emerging from around one of the concrete pillars.

"I don't doubt it," Reese smiled, giving Thatch a nod of approval, "Go for it, Willy."

Thatch's grin disappeared behind his respirator as he gave the spray gun a quick twirl, looking somewhere between a vandal and a gunslinger. He approached Reese's mech as Reese in turn gave his attention to Findlay.

"Anything new?"

"Yeah. Some crazy broad who wanted to see the captain," Findlay shrugged as best he could in the bulky power armor, "Turns out the birds are moving civies by the truckload."

"They're doing what?" Reese furrowed his brow in confusion.

"It's crazy, but what ain't these days?" Findlay smiled grimly, "The lady said they were moving civilians out by dropship. Captain thinks they're prepping for an offensive by moving 'em out of the city."

"How considerate of them," Reese snorted.

"Yeah, but get this: Dante finally let Anders take his Orca up." A slow smile spread across Reese's lips, building into a laugh.

"Hear that, Will?" Reese called over to the Wolverine. Thatch cut off the flow of paint and glanced over his shoulder.

"Hell yes," he laughed, muffled by his respirator, "I can barely wait for the video feed."

"How's that sound, Sean?" Reese turned back to Findlay, "Killing time watching a little death from above?"

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Findlay agreed. Reese's smile faded, and his voice took on a more serious tone.

"Any word from the rest of the 34th?" he asked. Findlay didn't need to be a genius to know the implied meaning: neither of them had seen Lance Corporal Ulrich Kastner since entering the city. All of the companies that had made it to Talruum had been splintered one way or another, and communication was spotty at best.

"Nothing yet," Findlay shook his head, "The best I've got is confirmation he wasn't with Top Willis when…" he trailed off. The fate of Master Sergeant Willis was well known among Frank Company. No one questioned the bravery of his last stand, but it stood as a testament to how most of the GDI troopers felt any prolonged fight would end: the turians would not retreat, and the GDI would fight to the last man. They had yet to hear of either side successfully taking prisoners.

"Keep me posted…sir," Reese added with a faint smile. Findlay's rank was still the butt of many jokes between the new sergeant and his comrades. Findlay had a reputation as dumb muscle: easily entertained and as unlikely to ever earn a command position in the GDI military as Kane himself.

To Reese's surprise, and that of many other troopers who knew Findlay, the Zone trooper had taken on his new stripes with unprecedented grace. He proved himself a quick thinker in the field and a charismatic rallying point for his men. But the shift came with an unexpected change in Findlay. He was not quite as quick to laughter as he had once been, and the lewd remarks that had once flowed like a river from his mouth had all but dried up. For better or for worse, he had changed.

Reese couldn't claim that the conflict hadn't affected him, either. Whereas Findlay had become more subdued, Reese found himself more reckless than he'd ever been on the battlefield. Even as early as the encounter when Frank Company had saved Findlay and his group, Reese fought with aggression that surprised even himself once the adrenaline wore off. He'd earned a small measure of fame for the shoulder-charge that had crippled a turian tank, but he'd have never tried something so foolhardy before…

After some thought, Reese wasn't entirely sure exactly when the change had been. His best guess was that it had been the orbital bombardment that had ravaged the 7th Armored during their exodus to Talruum. They'd been picked apart by an enemy that they couldn't touch, and Reese didn't think it was a stretch to think that the elements of the 7th in Frank Company were still wreaking their vengeance on the turians for that action.

**Alright, R&R, and I'll have chapter five up by next week at the latest. Four was my longest chapter yet, and five is even longer. Until then, adieu. **


	5. From Thessia with Love

**Alright, here's chapter five. Longest chapter yet, and an early update to make up for last week's delay fiasco. **

****In keeping with the tradition of _Renegade_, I've got a codex entry at the end of this chapter. I doubt I'll have many in future chapters, seeing as most stuff is either already explained in the story itself, but if I introduce anything particularly new/in need of additional explanation, I'll include one. ****

****Anyhoo, lots of people have been asking for it, and this is the chapter when I finally deliver on a turian POV. I had one planned out and partially written for a while, but now's the part when it actually gets posted. Enjoy!  
><strong>**

* * *

><p><strong>December 22, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

"_That's strange. If I didn't know better, I'd things _weren't_ going according to your plans_."

"The sarcasm is unnecessary, Matriarch," General Torq Artanis put a great deal of effort into keeping the better part of his anger out of his voice, "Operations are, in fact, moving more quickly than predicted for a first-contact scenario. We've all but annihilated their naval power, and progress is always slow when rooting out a guerrilla force."

"_The casualty reports seem to say otherwise_," the matriarch's image flickered, but the hologram retained its integrity, "_And_ _the Council is considering an emergency session should this conflict drag on for much longer._" Artanis stiffened, mandibles clicking in a clear sign of disapproval.

"And I suppose you've only interrupted my war effort to heckle me?" he asked coldly. The matriarch shook her head.

"_No, general. Far from it, in fact. As I understand, you have a unit of commandos in your custody, do you not?_"

"Their presence is merely for training purposes, but yes, you are correct," Artanis replied.

"_Then you see where I'm going with this._"

"I do, and I will not," Artanis replied sharply, "This is a strictly turian operation. There is no need for the Republic's intervention."

"_Then it is fortunate you have asari available and not krogan,_" the matriarch countered, "_I am by no means bringing you the blessing of the Republic to wage war on some infant species. But I _am_ reminding you that asari commandos do not fight in plain sight, and their skills seem to be exactly what you could use._"

"Hm," Artanis grunted, expanding the tactical display alongside the hologram with a quick motion over his omni-tool, "There are a number of fortified positions that are proving…troublesome. But I expect our own infiltrators will prove more than capable of-"

"_Please, general_," the matriarch gave a knowing smile, "_There's no need to posture. I've seen the aftermission reports. If one route does not work, try another_."

"I assume you're referring to the _encrypted_ and _highly classified_ aftermission reports?" Artanis growled. The matriarch was not only unphased, but possibly even amused, much to the general's chagrin.

"Weakly_ encrypted, but of course not. That would be illegal, wouldn't it?_"

"I'll take your suggestion into consideration," Artanis stated flatly, "Will that be all, matriarch?"

"_Yes, general_," she paused a moment, then added, "_Good luck_." Surprisingly, there was no trace of sarcasm in the remark. Artanis nodded, and the hologram vanished as the line went silent.

General Artanis was a lifer, as his rank implied. He'd enlisted for the long run, and he had no intention of ending his military career in a police action against a fledgling race that thought having interstellar travel made them the lords of the universe. If that meant accepting the aide of the asari from under the table, it was a small price to pay. The Asari Republic produced some of the most formidable soldiers in the galaxy, but their weakness was their small numbers. They weren't intended as frontline infantry, but they rarely ended up in that role anyway. And that certainly wasn't how Artanis planned to deploy the commandos he'd been given unofficial control over.

He ran a hand over his omni-tool, opening the mission reports that the matriarch had been referring to along with a few others, internally taking note to strengthen electronic security measures.

Humans were a surprising race. Artanis was not so proud to refuse admitting that much. The sudden appearance of one of their gunships three days prior was as sure a sign as any. It had stalled efforts to move human civilians out of the city by a considerable deal, something that had infuriated Artanis at the time. It had emerged from the heart of the city, brought down four turian ships and crippled a fifth, and vanished literally moments before interceptors made it on-site.

But that was not the main incident that the matriarch had referenced. Commandos were not effective counters for gunships, after all. Artanis figured that the report she'd obtained was from the infiltration team that had been tasked with weakening the defenses of the human stronghold formed from one of their government centers. He'd ordered it in the aftermath of the gunship's rampage in an effort to strike back and damage enemy morale when it was at its peak.

He'd read and re-read the report a dozen times, but he opened it again nonetheless.

* * *

><p><strong>December 19, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

It was a cliché that reached between species, but the fact remained that sewage systems were an alarmingly effective way of infiltrating an otherwise heavily fortified building. It was for this express reason that Commander Ulthwe Saim decided to lead his five-man team into the sewers of Talruum to break the siege of the human bastion over their heads.

Unfortunately for the turian infantry, the building appeared to be built to be a defensible position, and boasted automated defense guns in addition to the soldiers that had taken up residence inside. Nearby human positions prevented it from being completely surrounded, and even then starving them out was an undesirably lengthy strategy.

And thus, Saim and his infiltrators stalked through the veritable river of waste-laden water. Thankfully, all five troopers had sealed their suits, keeping out the undoubtedly overpowering odor and sparing them from whatever alien viruses humans had infesting their sewers.

The infiltrators had light amplification filters built into their helmets, but such technology wasn't of much use when there was no ambient light whatsoever. As such, the turians had to use the dated but nonetheless effective muzzle-mounted lights of their rifles. They would only pose a problem for remaining undetected once Saim and his men were inside the actual building, but by then they could revert to the filters of their helmets.

Saim and the others were veterans, but the sewers were a nightmare for soldiers of any caliber. They were confined quarters with minimal cover, meaning that any firefight that broke out would result in a bloodbath. Not only that, but their lamp packs were turning every stray piece of debris into a looming shadow and reflecting off the murky water. Not only was their peripheral vision unreliable, it was outright dangerous. The shifting darkness was grating on every trooper's nerves.

The sooner they got out of the sewers, the better.

"Movement left," one soldier broke the silence. Two rifles immediately turned in the direction he indicated, the remaining three continuing to watch other possible angles of attack. The waist-deep water sloshed with the sudden halt of the formation, and lamp packs swept the darkness. Ten seconds passed, and there was still nothing but the dancing shadows.

"It's just shadows, O'Shav," Saim finally stated, "Let's keep moving."

"_Maraas_," O'Shav murmured, "Nothing…" In any other operation, Saim might have held the false alarm against him, but this was not any other operation. This was in the bowels of an alien city, one that the Hierarchy had not known of until little over a month ago. They were plunged into war without any of the usual prerequisite knowledge on the race they would be fighting. It was-

"Movement right!" another soldier, Karra this time. Again, the squad halted, and again, beams of light swept the adjoining passages of the sewer. And again, there was nothing.

But soldiers did not live to be veterans by making repeat mistakes. Saim could feel the sense of unease that was pulsating among the team. There _was_ something in the sewers besides them, and it was…

Saim's blood ran cold. The movements of experienced soldiers had order to it, every action holding distinct meaning drilled in by years of training. If there was in fact something just beyond the gaze of their lamp packs, it wasn't shadowing them as veteran soldiers would: it was stalking them, like a predator stalked its prey.

In his youth, Saim had seen formidable predators at work. They moved with a terrible grace, eating away at the minds of their prospective prey. When they walked, their claws never made any noise that the predator did not permit, but every so often, it saw fit to give the prey some sort of warning of its presence. Each time, the hapless animal would try and find the source, but the predator was nowhere to be found.

If the prey was a herd animal, this was to provoke a disorganized flight. Members of the herd would eventually make a run for it, disregarding the very formation that kept them safe. Though they were by no means sentient, they were just as susceptible to fear as any ascended race.

But perhaps the turians were even _more_ vulnerable to that sense of primal fear than mere animals were. Saim and his squad knew that they were in unfamiliar waters, and the most terrible of the humans' soldiers may not have yet made themselves known.

The squad tensed as a voice abruptly echoed through the tunnels. It wasn't the grind of machinery, or the noises of an animal. It was distinctly a voice, its words resting beyond the perception range of the turian translators.

"Hold," Saim hissed, "Cover all angles. Safeties off."

Saim risked a moment to enter a quick command into his omnitool. The turians had largely cracked the most common human tongue, but the one that emanated from all around them was eluding its detection. The translation software began its work immediately, matching words, phonetics, and their location with what had already been translated.

The translator did not work quickly enough, at least not quickly enough to matter.

"Contact right!" Karra cried, opening fire with her rifle. The chatter of the mass accelerator filled the sewer, and suddenly everything was lit by its muzzle flash. It was surreal, like a strobe light that made reality appear it was skipping every other frame.

But this time, there was a target. The guttural speech raised itself to an unintelligible howl, and a blazing fireball screamed from the right passage. It struck Karra, knocking aside Jaerith and Saim as it continued undaunted, eventually falling into the water a few meters down the left passage.

Saim recovered first, trying to draw a bead on whatever had hit Karra. Its appearance had been a result of sparking kinetic barriers and the thrusters of the jump jets the human infantry favored. With Karra and her attacker both submerged in the filthy water, Saim couldn't risk firing without potentially hitting his comrade.

"Contacts!" O'Shav shouted. His assault rifle fired, adding to the chaotic din that engulfed the turian squad. His target did not charge as Karra's had. Instead, it returned fire. In the cramped confines of the sewer, there was no way the shots could have missed. The first powerful bolt shattered O'Shav's kinetic barriers, and the second struck him squarely in the gut, blasting out his back in a spray of gore.

Karra's mass accelerator finally opened up a second time, spraying her attacker and forcing him back. Saim could now see that it was one of the human soldiers, clad in battered body armor and layers of grime from prolonged time in the sewers. His rifle was nowhere to be seen, but there was a sidearm at his hip, and a filthy combat knife clenched in his right hand.

Worse, even in the flashing light of the other squad members opening fire on their own targets, Saim could see that the blade was now slick with purple blood. A similar cloud was staining the water around Karra, and the female trooper had one hand pressed against the breech in her armor.

The trooper swung the blade, but Saim ducked the slash, driving into the man's guard despite the resistance of the water. His elbow crashed into the human's helmet, sending him reeling and ripping his helmet off. Saim raised his rifle as soon as the opening presented itself, opening fire even as the human raised his knife a second time.

The volley broke the human's kinetic barriers and ate through the armor on his forearm. The fresh swing continued even as the human's wrist and hand, still clutching the knife, tumbled off into the water.

Such a grievous would have given even the hardiest krogan pause for thought. But the soldier lunged forward, grabbing hold of Saim's shoulder with his remaining hand and thrusting his ruined arm forward. In the flashing light, Saim caught sight of the jagged bone that jutted from the wound before the soldier rammed it into a gap in the turian's armor where shoulder met torso.

For a long moment, Saim was face-to-face with the human soldier. It had been the closest he'd ever been to a human in the entire conflict, and one of the few times he'd seen their soldiers without helmets. Their faces had a resemblance to the asari, albeit with more square, rough features that Saim assumed was simply a result of being a two-gendered species.

The most distinct trait was his eyes: crazed and bloodshot, with just enough white visible beneath the red-tint to show what they ought to have looked like. At the center, the pupil filled the iris, a black hole at the center of a web of red. The eyes of this soldier were the eyes of an animal, not a sentient being, driven to berserker levels by equal measures rage and fear.

Then that moment passed, and half of the human's face exploded, spraying Saim's face with red blood. Saim forced the limp human off him, holding back a grunt of pain as the bone shard was roughly pulled from his shoulder. Karra lowered her pistol, having slung her rifle when her wound made it too difficult to operate one-handed.

Saim would thank her for saving his life later, once they were out of harm's way, but the chances of that happening were dropping by the second. O'Shav was dead, face-up in the water, and Karra and Saim were both wounded, while Jaerith and Moraxus were pouring mass accelerator fire down the sewer tunnels as quickly as their weapons would allow them. There were certainly more than just two human soldiers, considerably more than there were turians from the look of it. Several of their corpses floated in the murky water, riddled with far more assault fire than it should have taken to kill them under ordinary circumstances.

"Fall back!" Saim shouted, firing a three-round burst that broke the faceplate of a helmeted human, "Axe, lay down some charges!"

Moraxus, better known as 'Axe' among his comrades, complied immediately. Normally, he would have taken the time to fine-tune the detonation sequence of his demolition charges, anchor them from structural weak points, and other such rituals, but with every passing second, the infiltration team's chance of escape dropped further, and finesse was not a luxury they could afford.

He took an instant to arm the charges, then dropped them at the base of the walls of the tunnels. It was the closest thing the infiltration team had to an escape plan should they find themselves swamped while still in the sewers: detonate the charges, hopefully sealing off a few of the tunnels, and beat a retreat back to their insertion point. It wasn't a perfect plan by any stretch of the term. For one thing, the sewer system appeared to be a grid network, meaning there was likely a way around any sealed passages. At best, Axe would be buying them time.

"_Gaatlok saare_!" Axe barked. Many turian infantry modified their helmets to adjust their audio filters at the mere utterance of those words, knowing what generally came after them. The squad cut off its stream of fire, turning and ducking to present as small a target for shrapnel as possible as Axe triggered the detonator, filling the sewer with light, fire, and death.

* * *

><p>A block away and above ground, deep inside the Talruum city hall, Captain Dmitri Volkov watched the surface of his coffee ripple. Normally, it would have been written off as seismic activity, but in a state of war, Volkov knew all too well what had produced the rumble.<p>

But after a moment, it passed. No reports of casualties were coming in, and if it had involved any of the other GDI bastions, he'd hear about it over the radio when he spoke with Dante next. For now, it didn't affect him or his men, and thus wasn't his concern.

With that, he took a sip of his coffee and went back to his work. It was just another inconsequential reminder of war.

* * *

><p><strong>December 22, 2157<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

Doctor Katherine McCarthy sat in silence in her apartment, the only regular sounds being her rapid typing and the gentle hum of her computer terminals. The overhead lights were dimmed to such a point that they may as well have been off, but McCarthy knew that the gentle glow of her monitors was still enough to keep her eyes from acclimating to darkness. If she needed to get up for any reason, she didn't want to contend with an otherwise pitch-black apartment.

A window opened on the center screen. McCarthy didn't need to see to know who was contacting her. She had only been in continuous communication with one other person since the invasion.

**I've got a present for you, Kat**.

_And I'm already mortified_, she typed back.

**You'll feel bad about that when you see this. Sending it now**_**. **_A progress bar appeared on McCarthy's left screen after she accepted the transfer request.

_It'll take a bit to finish. What is it?_

**The first Turian-English dictionary. Or at least the code for one.**

_Are you kidding? How'd you get this?_

**I'm just the messenger. You can thank Jax for putting it together. **

McCarthy realized full well that this was a much more important breakthrough than her contact was treating it as. Breaking through encryption was one thing, but it didn't matter in the slightest if what was being said was a completely (and literally) alien language. GDI forces had abandoned trying to crack turian signals for their contents when it was apparent that whatever the aliens spoke, GDI translators weren't able to decipher it.

_This is…wow. I'm speechless_.

**Damn. First time for that. Taking a screencap. But you're still buddy-buddy with the captain in your basement, right?**

_Captain Dante, yes. I still can't get details, but they pulled off something big after I told them about the turians moving civilians. _

**Awesome. Then you can feed them this, too. They'll probably**

The message ended mid-sentence. McCarthy furrowed her brow, confused, then typed out her own message.

_Probably what?_

**Sorry, I started laughing. I was saying that they'll probably give you a medal at this rate**. McCarthy couldn't help but crack a smile. A few years ago, the GDI military was the last group she'd have expected to be a valued part of.

_Heh, maybe. I'll give it to them when the chance presents itself. _

**Aight. It goes without saying that you'll wait a bit, right?**

_Yeah. I'll give it some time. _

**Sorry to put you on the spot, btw**.

_It's fine. We were lucky to find an officer willing to take intel from a civilian in the first place. No need to push our luck_.

**Well, keep safe. If they start looking their gift horse in the mouth, we can ease off for a while**.

_Indeed. But I'd rather if you didn't call me a horse, Mal_.

**I didn't…guh. Damnit. You're messing with me, aren't you?**

_Always. Talk to you later_.

**Same, Kat**.

With that, the conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. McCarthy checked the progress of the download. It was nearly complete. She wasn't sure how useful it would be to Dante and his men, but it would certainly be useful to someone in the GDI chain of command. At the very least, Intelligence Operations would appreciate it. A popular saying among the GDI Marine Corp was, "On a good day, InOps might be able to tell that tiberium is green."

Despite the negative stereotypes, InOps was a powerful organization. Whatever weaknesses they had were largely side effects of continuous warfare with the Brotherhood of Nod's superior information network. As a result, InOps was a manifestation of the GDI's innate paranoia: it recorded any information it could find like an obsessive-compulsive archivist, but often had difficulty keeping all that information straight.

McCarthy's thoughts turned to Captain Dante. He was an oddity for the GDI war machine. Most GDI commanders would have only accepted the presence of a civilian in their base of operations after screening intensive enough to filter the color out of her hair. Instead, he'd taken her words and evidence and acted on them within hours. He had initiative, flexibility, and the ability to control what was clearly a mixed company composed of multiple separate units. He was a good man…too good for the GDI, but there was little hope of changing that. McCarthy had no doubt that this encounter would blossom into a full-scale war, and Dante would likely be one of many to be fed into the grinder of interstellar war.

McCarthy leaned back, rubbing her tired eyes. Monitoring and keeping tabs on the movements of two separate military elements was taxing, even for someone of her skill. It would likely be easier now that she had the capability to translate the turian transmissions, but she was still left in a frustrating position of inactivity. She couldn't report every development to Dante without fear of drawing the easily provoked suspicion of the GDI, and that left her simply…watching. Watching was tolerable when it was a world away, or even just a continent away, but it wasn't nearly as easy when the war she was watching was being waged just outside her window.

She sighed, feeling a pang of hunger. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it was almost midnight. She pushed back her chair and made her way to the kitchen, the monitors dimming their backlights as soon as they no longer felt her presence.

* * *

><p>Specialist Locke continued to stare through his binoculars, letting the integrated filters strip away the polarization on the windows between him and his target. Technically, she not a target. At least not yet. Locke did not have orders to monitor her, much less neutralize her, but the autonomy afforded to commandos allowed him to devote time as he saw fit to various 'projects' around Talruum.<p>

She was a strange one, and GDI's past taught that it was never wise to ignore the strange ones. She had proven herself useful, but so had double agents throughout history. Locke was wary of her, even if Dante was not. Dante was no fool, but he was trusting, perhaps too trusting for the situation at hand.

Locke watched as the target left her computers, moving to another section of the apartment. The commando had already checked to confirm that he could not remotely access the contents of the computers, or even monitor in real time what they displayed. In his experience, anyone with the desire and ability to conceal themselves electronically had good reason to do so.

Locke checked the timer in the corner of his HUD. He had some basic recon to perform. From the look of it, his target was preparing food. She wasn't going anywhere. He let his binoculars compact and slipped them back into the pouch on his belt. He had reason to be suspicious, certainly, but not enough to warrant any drastic action. He would wait. There certainly was time for that. Leaving his target blissfully unaware of the eyes that had been upon her, he melted into the night.

* * *

><p>Even among the elite ranks of the asari commandos, Aleena Corpatis was good. So good, in fact, that she was the de facto leader of the commando group attached to the turian forces under General Torq Artanis. Of course, they had never been intended to be deployed in combat. Their role was primarily as advisors and trainers, both for turian infiltration teams and biotic 'cabals.'<p>

Apparently, things were proceeding slowly enough to merit their use on the battlefield. Aleena knew that Artanis wasn't stupid: he recognized how powerful an asset an asari commando unit was. Aleena had no intention of proving him wrong.

Most of the unit had experience doing 'independent' work. The lack of structure in the asari military meant that every commando unit was essentially an autonomous entity when not in an active state of war, and demand was high in the private sector for the renowned skills of asari commandos. None of them assumed that their involvement meant that the Republic was getting involved, and thus they simply considered it like any other mercenary work.

Aleena's omni-tool projected a small screen over her wrist, running through pages of intelligence regarding their new foe. Most of it was enhanced video footage, but that would be adequate for now. Aleena had a sense of amused respect for anyone who could give the Hierarchy this much trouble, especially so soon after a first encounter. It was possible she was simply drawing natural parallels between humans and the krogan, but there were certainly parallels to draw: thick armor on even their lowliest soldier, massive firepower, and the hulking suits of powered armor mingled among their basic infantry.

But they were still more flexible than the krogan military. During the Rebellions, the primary krogan advantages had been their seemingly endless population and species-wide aggression. They fought with overwhelming numbers of hard-as-nails soldiers that crushed any opposition, quite often literally. The human infantry, inversely, showed a consistent ability to outmaneuver their turian counterparts, aided in large part by their widespread use of jump jets.

It was of little consequence. Flexible or not, the human infantry needed bases to return to, and that was more than enough for the commandos to work with. Aleena smiled to herself. This would be a good fight.

* * *

><p>"Lock and load, Marines," Staff Sergeant Elliot Salem shouted, "There's killing to be done. And are we the men for the job?"<p>

"**Sir, yes, sir!**" the Marines barked in unison, test-cycling the modules of their Werewolves and locking armor into place. The improvised barracks was alive with the sounds of preparation, and no one among the Marines planned to be left behind.

"Damn straight!" Salem grinned, "We move out in ten. I expect you ready to move in half that. Are we clear?"

"**Sir, yes, sir!**"

Salem nodded, satisfied. His own gear was already assembled, and he trusted the ten Marines chosen for the mission to see to their own. Instead, he left the barracks to check on the one non-Marine who would be accompanying the party.

A few levels later, he came face-to-face with Private First Class William Thatch. He was in the final stages of bringing his Wolverine online, and the cockpit of the walker was still open. Thatch hung in its center, torso harnessed and limbs encased by the endoskeleton that allowed him to transfer the motions of his arms and legs to that of the mech.

"How long 'til you're set, Willy?" Salem smirked as he saw the new artwork on the Wolverine, similar designs on its the two inert counterparts and the other vehicles in the immediate area. Thatch had gained a strong following among the troops for his creation of the Frank Company emblem, which was now visible on even bare flesh after one soldier 'requisitioned' a tattoo needle from a nearby shop.

"Thirty seconds, chief," Thatch replied smoothly, shifting his legs as he did. The Wolverine rose from its hunched position and to its full height, plates on its front shifting as he did. They closed over him, the last sight of him being his wicked grin.

"_Ready to rock_," Thatch's voice echoed through the Wolverine's external speakers as he moved his stubby 'arms' to ensure a full range of movement for the autocannons.

"All you gotta do now is keep up," Salem laughed, expertly triggering his jump pack to elevate him to 'head' height with the Wolverine. He hovered for a few seconds before cutting them off, dropping into a crouch.

"_Funny, that: I was gonna say the same thing_," Thatch answered. Salem laughed again, leaving the Wolverine to his final test sequences. The Wolverine was capable of running at remarkable speeds, and its bulk meant it could barrel through virtually any of the junk in the streets of Talruum that it couldn't maneuver around. It would have little trouble keeping up with the Marines and their jump packs.

"Elliot," a familiar voice halted Salem's return to the Marines' level. Leaning against one of the concrete pillars was Gunnery Sergeant Tyson Rios, a career-long comrade of Salem and a close personal friend.

"'Sup, Ty?" Salem raised an eyebrow, unaffected by Rios' serious demeanor. No amount of time together had made Salem any less enthusiastic about his work or Rios any less than deadly serious in everything he did.

"You'll be out of support range," Rios stated, "Watch your back. If shit gets too hot, make sure you've kept an exit open."

"Relax, Ty," Salem snorted, "A few minutes of firefight, and I'll be back with a fresh batch of Marine mouths to feed."

"…fine," Rios nodded, giving a visual cue that experience had taught Salem was the closest thing Rios ever gave to a sigh of resignation.

"Look, Ty, I'll be back," Salem's cocksure attitude dropped a few degrees, "Always have, and always will. Just you wait and see."

"I know," Rios replied, "Just making sure you don't try anything stupid. Wolverines don't grow on trees, and we've only got three." Salem grinned. That was the Tyson Rios he knew.

"It'll like borrowing a car for a test drive," Salem called as he continued his trek to the barracks, "I'll bring it back with a full tank, _dad_."

"At least give it a few new kill marks," Rios shouted back, cracking a rare, small smile.

* * *

><p>Before the allotted ten minutes had even ticked away, Staff Sergeant Elliot Salem was leaping through the streets of Talruum, propelled by his armor's integrated jump pack. Ten Marines followed behind him, all wary of potential interlopers but nonetheless glad to be out of the confines of the garage.<p>

Below and slightly behind the Marines, Thatch and his Wolverine ran with speed most would not have expected from such an ungainly looking construct. It left rectangular divots in the road whenever it adjusted its path to avoid junked cars and other larger debris. Others it simply trampled over, pulverizing broken roadblocks into concrete dust and crushing small cars as surely as a trash compactor.

The group was being deployed in response to a distress call from an isolated GDI infantry group. Of the several GDI strongholds, Frank Company's was the closest, and therefore deemed best to send a rescue team. From the information given, the embattled squad was pinned down by a relatively small group of turians with light vehicle support. Normally, this would not be an issue, but the squad had lost its anti-tank weaponry and their Werewolf modules were infuriatingly ineffective against the vehicle in question.

As Salem grew closer to the signal origin, the marks of battle were clear enough. Mass accelerator fire pockmarked the road and nearby buildings, and the roof of a small, one-story fast food outlet was lined with sandbags. Around it, Salem could see the bodies of a handful of turian infantry.

Curiously, the only sounds of combat were still distant, and in spite of the alien bodies, there were none alive to be seen. Salem landed at the corner of a building opposite the defensive location, raising a closed fist to bring the rest of the squad to a halt. The mass effect fields in the jump packs ensured that they touched down without a sound. Even the Wolverine stepped as lightly as it could, though its footfalls were still audible.

"HQ, confirm signal location?" Salem spoke into his helmet's radio, lowering his voice even though the helmet would have muted his voice more than enough already.

"_Roger, rescue team. Coordinates place signal at intersect of 40__th__ and Broad Street_," the radio operator replied, "_Distress beacon is still active, but no response on comms._ _Any_ _problems, rescue team?_"

"There are signs of combat, but no active firefight," Salem said, "Moving in to confirm GDI presence."

"_Understood. If none, withdraw to HQ_." The channel closed, and Salem made several quick gestures to the waiting Marines. Immediately, their Werewolves snapped up and the soldiers fanned out, Salem taking point as he approached the small building. The Wolverine stepped forward slowly, minimizing the number of footfalls it made.

Salem triggered a quick burst from his jump pack, alighting gently on the roof. Several Marines followed, while the others remained on the street. Salem stepped over the sandbags, noting the lack of…anything. There were no bodies, no abandoned weapons…no sign that any GDI soldiers had been there save for the sandbags themselves.

But there was one item that caught his eye. Nestled in one corner of the sandbags was a small device, round and black with a flat base and a series of blue lights ringing the top with a larger one at the center. It wasn't any form of GDI tech that Salem recognized. The light on the top pulsed every few seconds at regular intervals, but otherwise, it did nothing.

As he watched, the blue lights pulsed once, then went dark. Almost immediately, Salem's radio crackled to life.

"_Rescue team, distress beacon is no longer transmitting. Anything to report?_" Salem's eyes widened. Whatever the object was, it was certainly not a GDI distress beacon. Did that mean that it had been giving off the signal of-

One of the Marines on the roof stiffened, and Salem's vision was suddenly darkened by a splash of darkness. His faceplate boiled away the obstructing fluid just as the Marine toppled over, an exit hole in his own faceplate.

A moment later, Salem heard the delayed crack of a sniper rifle. He threw himself to one side, and a patch of roof cracked under the impact of a second round. The second report sounded immediately thereafter.

"Sniper!" Salem shouted, rolling over the sandbags and out of what he hoped was the sniper's line of sight. The remaining three Marines on the roof responded only after a third shot struck one of their number, breaking his kinetic barriers but leaving him unharmed.

And a moment later, all hell broke loose, descending squarely upon Staff Sergeant Salem and his squad.

* * *

><p>Aleena frowned, shifting her target reticule to try and get the man she was confident was the leader of the squad. He was quick on the uptake, that much was clear. He was likely piecing together how the asari had lured his team to the location just as she opened fire. It was a shame that one of the men had stood between him and her rifle's reach. Otherwise, the first death would have been him. Her third shot only broke a soldier's shields. Three shots for only one kill? Unacceptable. She'd make up for it.<p>

"Take them out," Aleena ordered, transmitting her words to each member of the commando team, "Quickly." There could be no dawdling when it came to human soldiers. Their jump packs meant that they could escape any trap that didn't seal them in perfectly, and that was something Aleena was not willing to allow.

Aleena fired again, catching one human to the left of the restaurant. This time, her aim was in line with her centuries of experience, blasting the human's brain out one side of his head after the round entered the other.

From various concealed locations on street level and above it, the remainder of the asari commandos opened fire. They mostly wielded battle and sniper rifles, but one commando was armed with an M-76 Revenant Light Machine Gun. Suppressing fire was invaluable when keeping human soldiers in one place, and the high-caliber machine gun had been requisitioned from the turian armory for that very purpose.

Aleena switched her rifle munition from phasic to armor-piercing with practiced ease. Phasic rounds were second to none when it came to breaking shields, but human infantry had thus far proven to sport heavy armor even on their standard infantry. With fire from her comrades already whittling away at their shields, armor-piercing rounds would prove much more valuable at this point. Aleena was somewhat disappointed that their group did not include their bulky powered armor, but the presence of one of their walkers was a surprise, though not one she'd been unprepared for.

Still, it was a threat, and that was never more apparent than when it rounded the corner of the restaurant, raising the barrels of its autocannons and pinpointed Aleena's perch. Internally, the asari was impressed that it had managed to pick out her location so quickly. Externally, she was hurling herself back as the muzzles of the autocannons lit up, engulfing her position in a storm of fire.

* * *

><p>The GDI team took cover as best they could, but the best protection would have been on the roof, which was being overlooked by a sniper. Salem cursed himself for not having smelled an ambush sooner, but how could he have? The turians had never falsified GDI transmissions before, and the war had been waging for nearly a month. <em>Of course<em> they had cards they hadn't played yet.

Now, gunfire was erupting from a dozen locations, all of it infuriatingly precise. There were so many angles covered, Salem wouldn't have been surprised if they were surrounded by an entire company of infantry.

On street level, the only protection worth being thankful for was the line-of-sight block provided by the fast food joint against at least one of the snipers. Unfortunately, that also meant that seeking cover beyond its shade was a death sentence. Private Jameson had only just raised his Werewolf when a shot grazed him, causing him to stumble past the building's corner. A sniper round immediately punched through his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"Thatch!" Salem called, raising his voice to speak over the unguided return fire the GDI poured out in the hopes of locating one of the gunmen, "Take out that sniper!"

Thatch didn't reply, but not because he was ignoring the order. Two men were already dead, the remainder pinned down by enemies they hadn't yet found. Thatch knew that the substantial armor his Wolverine held was useless to the infantry if they kept getting picked off, and he had no intention of fleeing back to Frank Company with eleven dead men in his wake.

He rounded the building, letting the Wolverine's integrated EVA track and trace the incoming fire back to its source. He could highlight enemy positions for the infantry, but that would have to wait. For now, he had a sniper to kill.

Thatch normally kept the quasi-AI muted simply because its voice was usually redundant. It still did its job with or without it, and he was in-tune enough with the data fed back by his mech's sensors that anything it said would just be stating the obvious. Within moments, a blue line appeared across his field of vision, leading back to a window some ten-odd stories over them. The window itself was painted a translucent blue, and Thatch raised the Wolverine's cannons until his target reticule burned gold.

A stream of high-velocity, armor-piercing rounds spat from the autocannons' barrels, shattering the targeted window and several surrounding with the spread from the range. He kept up the deluge of heavy rounds, tracing it back and forth along the level, tearing a swath of destruction across the level.

Satisfied that the sniper had been dealt with, he turned his attention back to the street. Again, the Wolverine's EVA worked, and the streams of enemy fire appeared as clearly as if they had been tracer rounds.

"Painting tangos," he announced, sending the information to the squad with a quick command input. His shields flared, coming under fire from one of the heavier weapons the enemy was deploying. Thatch growled with annoyance as he followed the trail of fire to its source, shredding the window and those surrounding. The stream of fire stopped, though his shields had been weakened a considerable deal. He was drawing fire from other locations, but even if they broke his shields, nothing short of tankbusters could penetrate his armor.

The GDI fire became more accurate now that they had targets. They had lost another man, but the firepower of eight GDI Marines was nothing to scoff at. Their initial disadvantage had been because they could not find their foe, but now, they had no such handicap.

* * *

><p>Aleena waited for the autocannon's wrath to subside before crawling to the newly torn edge of the building. The human war machine was the immediate priority. She had seen footage of what it could do against infantry, and knew that if the turian medium-weight armor and shields offered almost no protection against it, the lightweight bodysuits of the commandos wouldn't have a chance. Fortunately, it needed to face where it would fire, giving adequate advance warning to the agile asari targets. Aleena doubted that even any the less-experienced members of the unit would meet their end at the hands of such an inelegant weapon.<p>

"Two through seven, continue to target infantry," Aleena ordered through her headset, "Eight through ten, focus on the machine. We need its shields broken." No confirmations came through, but that was to be expected. Asari commandos carried out their orders without flaw. If any response came, it would only be to explain if they were unable to perform their function.

Aleena had discarded her sniper rifle when she had dodged the walker's fire, but there was little need for it at the moment. Instead, she unfolded a second rifle, letting it settle on its thick bipod as it extended to its full length.

Even with Aleena's advanced training, centuries of experience, and the integrated recoil dampeners in the stock, the M-98 'Widow' Anti-Material rifle would have broken her arm upon firing. But asari commandos were not merely 'good' at their work: they were legendary.

A whirling blue haze encircled Aleena's body as she placed an eye to the scope of the massive rifle. All asari were born biotic, and commandos did not become one of the most feared forces in the galaxy without honing these natural gifts to a razor-sharp edge. Aleena focused her power with little more than a thought, then spoke again.

"Wasea, deploy a warp field on the machine, on my mark." The walker's shields were still intact, despite the focus of three of the commandos' fire. It would take something more to bring them down entirely.

"Three…"

The walker let loose another salvo of heavy shells, forcing another commando back, subtracting crucial fire from the infantry suppression.

"Two…"

The infantry's fire was becoming significantly more effective. They had actually located a few of the commandos, and the asari fire slackened further.

"One…"

The war machine jerked around abruptly, guiding its fire from one of the commando's positions to another without warning. A momentary cry of pain was heard through the comm channel, but Aleena did not waver.

"Mark."

Aleena squeezed the trigger. The rifle's report went off like a thunderclap, drowned out only by the continuous roar of the walker's autocannons. The Widow was designed with two foes in mind: krogan and armored vehicles. It struck the walker's already-weakened shields, shattering them at the expense of the shot not reaching the mech itself.

Aleena was already priming for a second shot as Wasea rose from cover, her arm wreathed in biotic glow, and hurled a ball of rolling blue energy at the unshielded mech. Aleena's timing had been perfect, and the result was immediate.

Aleena smiled with satisfaction as she finished preparation for her second shot, aimed, and fired.

* * *

><p>The sound of the Wolverine's shields failing was like the shattering of a great stained-glass window, but Salem was not overly distraught by the development. It had been taking sustained fire from multiple weapons for the duration of the firefight, and its shields were bound to fall sooner or later. Thankfully, Wolverines and other mechs had reserve capacitors for this very purpose. The shields would not be down for long.<p>

Salem began to turn his gaze back to his rifle's sights, but a flare of blue stopped him. Salem stared in awe as a sphere of blue energy tore across the battlefield, striking the Wolverine's front armor. It did not detonate, but instead did something altogether more unsettling.

The armor plating began to churn, as if its alloy was suddenly becoming unstable. Salem could clearly hear servos whining in protest as they were taxed by the impact, and the entire mech became outlined by a blue haze.

Inside the Wolverine, Thatch swore viciously as his damage schematic lit up, shifting from green to yellow and red, then back again, refusing to remain any single color consistently. His HUD wavered as the entire mech seemed to strain under its own weight, as though it had suddenly been made too weak to easily support itself.

Abruptly, Thatch felt a tug above his waist. He vomited blood, spraying his front and the interior of the mech. His whole body shook as he struggled to see what had happened, eyes finally coming to rest on the hole the size of a basketball that had been ripped from his right chest and stomach, coring both him and the Wolverine.

Mercifully, another bolt flashed his head into nothing, tearing another hole through the already-crippled mech. Slowly, painfully, like a felled tree struggling to hold itself upright for a few moments longer, the Wolverine toppled over with a thunderous crash. The outgoing GDI fire slackened as the Marines stared in awe at the display that had destroyed the mech in a matter of seconds.

"Fall back," Salem murmured, still stunned, snapped back to the present as the enemy gunfire did not let up, "Fall back! Full burn!"

* * *

><p>"Move in," Aleena ordered with a satisfied smirk, "Don't let any escape."<p>

* * *

><p>Three Marines were scattered as a blue thunderbolt burst in their midst, ripping from one of the adjacent buildings. Perhaps it was merely the effects of adrenaline, but Salem could have sworn that the mysterious blue aura that had engulfed the Wolverine before its demise now gripped them, holding them suspended in the air for several painstaking seconds.<p>

At the point of impact among the three, a slim figure straightened up, still surrounded by the blue glow. It was a far cry from the turian infantry, and instead looked…almost human. Feminine, even. It wore a black bodyglove and similarly colored helmet that hid its features, but it was clearly molded to accommodate female anatomy.

But more relevant to the present situation was the large, boxy weapon in the figure's hands. Barely a moment after 'her' explosive arrival, the muzzle burst with fire, and another Marine was hurled off his feet, breaking his armor and shields with a single blast. At point-blank range, the attacker hadn't even needed to aim.

Salem longed to trigger his jump pack and hope for the best, but three of his Marines were still suspended in the air. He raised his Werewolf, but as he caught an inexplicable flash of orange in the corner of his eye, the rifle locked up, hissing as it tried to vent heat that Salem knew he hadn't exposed it to.

The decision was made for him.

With a howl, he lunged forward, discarding his rifle and drawing his combat knife with one smooth motion. Another Marine joined him, swinging the butt of his Werewolf at the attacker even as she ejected a smoking 'shell' from her devastating weapon.

The second Marine reached her first, his swing missing as she lithely bent herself around the strike. In the same movement, she forced her own weapon under his chin and squeezed the trigger. Salem continued undaunted, more intent than ever to tear the life from the attacker.

* * *

><p>Wasea twisted the muzzle of her M-300 'Claymore' shotgun from the smoking ruin of the recently-dispatched human's head, angling it to deflect the slashing blade of a second lunging soldier. She released one hand from the weapon and shot the hand forward, fingers forward in the shape of a spade that would cave the human's throat in.<p>

Surprisingly, the human shunted the strike aside, driving his knife toward Wasea's stomach. He was more skilled than the others, if only marginally. She let her shotgun fall from her grip as her hand glowed with biotic power, reaching down to block the gutting attack.

* * *

><p>The attacker's fingers wrapped around the blade of the combat knife, stopping it infuriatingly close to her body. Salem grunted, trying to force it the final few inches, but his strength seemed useless against the blue glow that surrounded her limb.<p>

Her other hand drew back, this time in a fist wreathed in that same damned haze. Salem tried to divert the blow a second time, but his arm merely brushed off it as it struck his chest, exploding like a grenade.

Salem was thrown through the air, well aware that the blow had cracked ribs. How he was thrown like a ragdoll by such a slim figure still astounded him, making the entire encounter feel like some sort of fever dream.

He hit the pavement hard, further taxing his battered body. The attacker advanced on him, another Marine charged, trying to blindside her. Without sparing so much as a glance, she swung a backhanded strike that caught the Marine alongside his helmeted head. He stumbled past her for a few paces before his body realized his neck had been twisted far beyond the flexibility of any living man, falling to his knees before crumpling to the ground.

The five remaining Marines followed Salem's last order, triggering their jump packs. It would put them well inside their foe's line of fire, but that was a gamble they needed to take. They rocketed towards Salem's position, trying to reach their commander and, beyond him, safety.

The first was perforated by fire from multiple positions, jerking him in mid-air before leaving him limp like a puppet with its strings cut.

The second and third were caught in the grip of the baleful blue haze, struggling uselessly against it. The attacker had one of her hands raised towards them, and another similar figure emerged from a nearby alley. With a quick gesture, she drove her hand downward, brutally smashing the hapless Marine into the pavement as her comrade did the same to the other. There was a sickening crunch, and neither man got back up.

The final two made it to Salem, immediately struggling to get their CO back on his feet.

"Keep going!" Salem barked, flicking the cap from a slim autoinjector as he did, "I'll be-" He cut off his own words as he drove the needle into an unarmored length of his thigh, almost instantly feeling the effects of the combat stimulant.

The crushing pain of his chest evaporated, and a curious euphoria set in. The two men with him shouted something he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears, then triggered their jump packs. Salem did the same, even as he cast a look over his shoulder just in time to see a sphere of blue energy whiz through the air and slam into him.

Through the buzz of the stimpack, whatever effect the impact had was lost on Salem. He continued regardless, mass accelerator fire zinging all around the trio. One caught a Marine upside the head, causing him to falter, but he continued forward after the moment had passed.

The other Marine was not so fortunate. Still in the air, he was torn in half at the waist, spilling entrails along his arc of flight before tumbling to earth. A thunderclap broke through even the stimpack's buzz a second after, presumably from the heavy weapon that had killed the Wolverine.

* * *

><p>Aleena's final shot killed one of the fleeing three, but the two remaining passed out of her line of sight. One was still trimmed by the blue glow of a warp field, but curiously, had taken the hit without so much as a pause. It seemed humans were on par with krogans in terms of pain tolerance.<p>

On the street below, Wasea swore, infuriated that her parting warp blast had not felled the escaping human. There was little chance of stopping them now. They had rounded a block as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and for all their skill, the asari could not keep pace with them unaided.

"Not bad," Aleena said into her headset, "Someone send word to the general. I'm sure he's worried sick about us." One of the other commandos, most likely Wasea, let out a short, humorless laugh. It would likely be one of the few reports they gave to the turians before setting out into the city.

The humans were holding out because the turian military could not force them from their strongholds. They would not likely fall for the false distress signal again. But from Aleena's point of view, that just meant that they would cower in their holes while the asari commandos picked them off one at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>But they're coming along nicely. Took out a team of turian spec ops just a couple days ago.<strong>

_Really? They're progressed that far already?_

**Eh. It was mostly the stims they've been pounding, but Jax says they're progressing just fine. **

Katherine McCarthy was surprised, but not unpleasantly so. If nothing else, the conflict had given them a chance to inject a few rogue elements into the fray to see how they fared in the field. McCarthy had never grown entirely used to some of the more ethically questionable factors of the work, but she could distance herself enough to appreciate the science behind it.

_How has Jax been monitoring them?_

**One of 'em drops dead every so often, for any number of reasons. When they do, he gets the body and does an autopsy. Simple enough.**

_And his latest findings…?_

**I'll forward them to you now.**

McCarthy saw the telltale progress bar appear on her left monitor, but motion beyond her computers drew her attention. Something was happening outside the windows, on the streets below.

_Hang on a sec. I'll be back_, she typed, standing up and looking through the tinted glass.

Two Marines had just alighted on the street, neither of them particularly steady on his feet. McCarthy fumbled for a pair of binoculars, managing to draw them into focus enough to see that the splotches on their armor looked like blood.

A trio of Marines ran from the garage ramp to meet them, sweeping the streets for enemy movement. Procedure came apart when one of the Marines abruptly fell to his knees, then facedown. He did rise, nor even move. One of the new trio shouted something into his helmet mic as the others supported the remaining Marine just as his own knees gave out.

Two more Marines ran from the building, one with the telltale cross insignia of a corpsman. He knelt beside the inert Marine, removing his helmet and checking vitals. Even from her apartment, McCarthy could see that there was a bullet wound on the back of the Marine's head. It was a miracle he had made it this far, and the mortal wound had simply caught up with him.

The corpsman turned his attention to the Marine supported between two comrades and was immediately taken aback by…something. Even from her vantage point, McCarthy couldn't see what, but he gestured almost frantically to the building, and the Marines began hauling the wounded man as quickly as they could. The corpsman and the remaining Marine grabbed hold of the dead trooper and followed after them.

Was it an operation gone bad? Something worse? McCarthy couldn't guess, but had the feeling that it would be important to find out what.

* * *

><p>"Clear a space, c'mon!" the corpsman barked, sweeping the contents off the closest table at hand, "Lay him down! We gotta get his armor off, ASAP." He glanced at the wounded Marine as his pair of attendants laid him flat on the table, cursing as he saw the name stenciled across the breast of his armor.<p>

"Shit…" one of the two muttered, trying to work one of the armor's clasps, "It's fused shut. I can't get it-" The corpsman responded without words, instead flicking open a folding knife from one of his hip pouches. With a deft cut, he severed the straps in question before handing the knife over to the Marine to finish the job.

"The hell is going on?" Acting Captain Dante was suddenly at the scene, pushing past what Marines had accumulated to see what all the commotion was about.

"It's Salem, sir," the corpsman said breathlessly, unfolding his field kit as he did, "One other with him, but he's KIA."

"I sent ten men out with him, and a Wolverine. Where are they?"

"I can't say, sir," the corpsman began to cut away Salem's shirt after the Marines had removed his armor, "They were the only…" he paused, dumbstruck by the state of Salem's body.

Nearly his entire torso looked like it was covered with burn scars, and his shoulder and neck tattoo had been mangled to the point of being nearly unrecognizable blotches of color.

Salem abruptly gagged, hacking up a wad of blood and bile, before giving a crooked smile with bloody teeth.

"Fuckin' witches," he spat, eyes still shut, "Fuckin…fu…" he opened his eyes, looking around himself as if noticing for the first time where he was. He caught sight of Dante, giving a groggy smile.

"Hey, cap. Sorry 'bout the walker. Can't really remember what…" he stopped, looking around again, "Is Ty around? Promi…promised I'd bring it back."

"Someone find Rios," Dante ordered, several nearby Marines leaping to the task, "Owens, what the hell happened to him?" The corpsman glanced up at his superior as he continued his work, pausing to load a syringe gun and fire its contents into Salem's exposed arm.

"I can't say, sir," he answered, "If I'd never seen him before, I'd say all this was from chemical burns at least a few years old, but something put them on him in the past few hours." He ran a compact scanner over Salem's chest, then continued.

"Got a good deal of internal bleeding. I gave him a shot of coagulating agents that should help, but…Christ, what did this?"

"Told you," Salem muttered, eyes drifting, "Buncha witches…"

"He's delirious," Owens half-apologized, half-explained, "He's lost a lot of blood. It looks like he's stimmed, too. Pupils are dilated. It's probably the only reason he's not in pain right now," the corpsman pointed to one of the Marines keeping a hand on Salem's shoulders, "Massani, get some more medigel. The internal hasn't stopped yet."

The Marine nodded, but as he moved away, Salem's now-free arm shot out, grabbing hold of the young Marine's arm. He tried to pull away, but for all the damage to his body, Salem's grip was like a vice.

"Ain't that. Ain't the chems," Salem said, fixing the Marine with his crazed eyes, "It's the anger it shoots into your blood, turns everythin' you feel to rage. An' rage…" he laughed weakly, ending with a hacking cough, "…it's a hell of an anesthetic." His grip released, and his arm fell limply back to the table.

"Massani, move!" Owens urged the shaken Marine, who swiftly obliged. At that moment, the tall frame of Gunnery Sergeant Tyson Rios emerged from the growing crowd. Salem's head lolled in his friend's direction, still plastered with a medicated grin.

"You made it, Ty," he said drowsily, eyes half-closed, "Gang's all here now…"

"Stop talking," Rios ordered, "Let the corpsman work. He'll get you fixed up."

"Heh," Salem chuckled, gaze drifting from his friend to the ceiling, "I can't see a thing, Ty. Got my eyes wide open, but I can't see a thing…"

"Elliot, just stay quiet," Rios urged, a pleading tone leaking into his voice, "Owens knows his stuff. Just-"

"Maybe we shoulda gone private sector after all," Salem murmured, "War's comin'…plenty of market a couple of…" Staff Sergeant Elliot Salem didn't finish the sentence. His eyes were still half-open, but they were unseeing. Even the weak movements of his chest had ceased.

"Shit," Owens swore, ripping the cap from an autoinjector. He rammed the device into Salem's chest, right over his left pectoral. The adrenaline shot pumped its contents into the Marine's heart, but he did not move. Owens tossed the spent injector aside. A second needle, and another shot of adrenaline. And even then, Salem did not move.

"Call it," Owens muttered, "Time of death, 2283. Cause-"

Dante didn't hear the rest of what the corpsman said. He turned to face Rios, trying to come up with the words a commanding officer ought to have known for that moment, but the gunnery sergeant was nowhere to be seen.

Dante was unsure whether hunting him down was a wise decision: he and Salem had been comrades since enlisting. They had fought through impossible odds before, but it had always been with one watching the other's back. And now, Salem was gone, and Rios had not been at his side when the fatal blows had been struck.

"Sir?" a Marine asked, drawing Dante's attention, "Dr. McCarthy's here again. She wants to see you. Should we…?"

"No, it's…it's alright," Dante sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Let her through. I'll talk to her."

* * *

><p>In the tunnels that honeycombed the earth below Talruum, the leader stirred. He was not sleeping, for he did not sleep. The monsters came when he slept. The closest experience he had to sleep was a sort of trance, watching the feverish images dance across his vision until his what remained of his conscious mind fell dormant.<p>

His blood began to itch, and the pain began to return. A low hiss followed, and the pain subsided. It was happening more frequently. His body was powerful, augmented by his steel exoskeleton, but its weakness could only be staved off for so long. A fuel's potency did not matter if the engine it ran could hold itself together.

Then one day, the cold presence was there, offering to help him. At first, the leader and his thralls had been wary of it. Even their ravaged minds knew to fear the cold embrace of death. But as days wore on, and the intrusions by the monsters became more and more frequent, the cold presence became more appealing. The leader was the first to realize the truth: death was not cold. Death was boiling blood, steaming entrails. Death burned, and the cold presence did not.

The cold presence could not be denied. It would have claimed them all whether they willed it or not, but by the time it began to take hold of the leader, he did not fear it: he welcomed it. His chemical-addled brain could still see the boons it presented, as though it spoke to him without words.

It offered strength, and he would need only give up his weakness.

It offered sanity, and he would need only give up his madness.

It offered bliss, and he would need only give up his pain.

It offered salvation, and he would need only submit to destruction.

The leader accepted, and his thralls were soon to follow. The cold presence began its work. It would need time, but the sounds of war over their heads told them that time would be of no consequence.

* * *

><p><strong>Codex – CMC-200 and CMC-660 Military Personnel Stimulants, aka 'Stimpacks'<strong>

Generally referred to as 'stims' among enlisted men, two primary forms of stimpacks have seen use in the GDI military. The first, the CMC-200, keeps men awake and alert when sleep isn't an option, and helps keep their combat effectiveness from dropping when deprived of sleep. The CMC-660 is a more potent variant: a chemical cocktail that synthesizes adrenaline, various endorphins, and a phencyclidine derivative. It is strictly a combat stimulant, used to fuel aggression, dampen pain, and enhance reflexes. Investigations are underway following accusations of debilitating muscular and psychological damage following prolonged or continuous usage of the 660 variant.

* * *

><p><strong>And that's chapter five. R&amp;R, same as usual. Those of you who remember the details of Wrex's backstory might remember Aleena, and Wasea is another familiar face. For turian characters, Artanis will appear periodically, though Saim's fate I left a bit ambiguous. Anyone think he's worth bringing back?<strong>

**Other stuff: besides the characters mentioned above, we've also got a 'new' character with the leader. If his bits are confusing, good. If they're unnerving/creepy, better. If they're frustrating, not so good, but he'll play a role later on. If you correclty guess his identity right off the bat, then your powers of telepathy could probably be better used than guessing plot revelations in crossover fiction. **

**Strangely, one of my reasons for initially not doing much from the turian perspective was language. To my knowledge, the ME games never actually give us a point of reference for the turian language, and that made naming things like vehicles and such (and the occasional exclamation) rather difficult. For this chapter onward, I settled on using the qunari language from _Dragon Age_ as a stand-in, and I think it works well enough.  
><strong>

**...and before anyone asks, yes, I like _Starcraft_, which corresponds nicely with my love of references, and my hatred of coming up with alphanumeric designations for objects and names for characters. **


	6. Children of the Zone

**January 3, 2158**

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

The late Staff Sergeant Salem had warned Frank Company of 'witches,' whose magicks had killed eleven Marines and a Wolverine. The warning had been treated as a product of blood loss and stimpacks, but twelve days after his death, Salem's delusions had proved prophetic of the storm that ripped through the GDI garrisons.

Acting Captain Dante lost twelve men and one of their three remaining Wolverines in the ambush that claimed Salem, and fifteen more Marines over the past week to the same attackers. It was infuriating: he'd lost nineteen men in a month of skirmishes with the turians, and now this new force had surpassed those numbers in barely over a week. The attacks were always the same, characterized by precise and accurate assault fire, and the bizarre weapons that could only be described as a weaponized mass effect field.

Dante snorted at the irony of it. They were fighting a mysterious enemy that only emerged from the shadows to ravage GDI ranks with devastating never-before-seen weapons. One Brotherhood falls, another one rises.

Whatever advantage they had gained through Anders' successful aerial assault was fading. Any GDI group venturing too far from their strongholds seemed in danger of annihilation from the turian strike force, and the turians had been keeping interceptors buzzing over the city ever since Anders had proven how ineffective their light gunships were against his Orca.

"_Tusk, this is Executive, do you read me?_" the radio rig interrupted Dante's reflection. He tapped a finger to his earpiece, synchronizing it with the radio's frequency.

"Tusk here, go ahead, Executive," Dante responded. Captain Dmitri Volkov had fortified city hall, hence his 'Executive' callsign, and it had been the most resilient of any GDI holdouts within the city thus far. Unfortunately, that made it an appealing target to crack open, and the turian forces were clearly not letting the havoc wrought by their newly-unleashed spec ops go to waste. Dante could hear background commotion through the channel, punctuated by the occasional muffled sound of cannon fire.

"_The_ _birds are getting bolder,_" Volkov growled, "_I haven't had a moment of silence for two days. I hope things are better on your end_."

"No sign of them right now, except for the occasional flyovers," Dante replied, "We're starting to see the bottom of supply crates, but from the sound of it, I'm complaining about a splinter while you've got an arrow in your gut."

"_Hah!_" Volkov gave a short, bitter laugh, "_At least we have targets to shoot at. I'd pick a well-supplied warzone over an island with waning rations any day. I'd send an APC over, but…_" As if the universe was relieving Volkov of the need to reply, the rumble of cannons and artillery told Dante all he needed to know about Volkov's situation.

"If you get the chance once the attacks subside, great. Until then, we'll be fine," Dante said, "I ought to be the one offering you support."

"_That Orca's no use docked, Dante, but it's worse than that if it gets shot down. The last thing my boys need is a GDI gunship going down in flames right in front of their faces,_" he paused a moment, then asked, "_Any luck finding those witches?_"

Dante was well aware of the irony. Salem's feverish nickname for his killers had become the accepted name among Frank Company for the strange force, and it had since leaked to other GDI forces.

"Nothing yet," Dante sighed, "The best we've got is some shaky video, but that didn't do us much good." He didn't mention the limited autopsy they had conducted on Salem's body, but Volkov already knew about it. The effects of the weaponized mass effect fields had been devastating and unique, and the corpsman who conducted the operation barely scratched the surface for lack of proper training and facilities.

"_How about your angel?_" Volkov asked, his smirk practically leaking through the headset, "_Any news from her?_"

"Apparently she's working with her colleagues across the city," Dante responded, "I gave some of what we already have, but as I said, we don't have much."

The 'angel' in question was none other than Dr. McCarthy, who Volkov periodically joked was developing an interest in Dante. Having actually _met_ McCarthy, Dante knew that this couldn't be further from the truth, but was thankful for whatever information the civilian could offer through her expertise.

"_Alright. Just be sure to-_" Volkov paused, and a second voice was barely audible through the channel. It was not loud enough to make out the words, but Volkov's reaction was information enough.

"_Goddamnit_," he muttered, "_I've got to go. There's a high-priority transmission coming in. Might be Williams. Executive out._"

"No problem. Tusk, over and out," Dante closed the line, and the radio resumed the low, droning buzz it made when not actively in use. Dante had spent so much time in the improvised ops center that the sound had become a pleasant white noise, ensuring that there would never be complete, discomforting silence.

Until a few days ago, Dante could have raised Lieutenant Campbell in the event that Volkov was unavailable. The contact with forces outside of Frank Company's garage was comforting in a way. The GDI forces in Talruum were cut off from outside support, to be sure, but knowing that there were others in similar predicaments within the city made it easier to shoulder. Not to mention the tactical advantage that multiple bastions offered: the turians had to divide their forces that much more, meaning their numerical advantage was not as powerful as it ought to have been.

But Lieutenant Campbell had dropped out of contact some time prior, not long after the ambush that claimed Salem. Just like the case of Gunnery Sergeant Willis, it had been Specialist Locke to confirm the demise of the GDI troops, venturing close enough to verify similar damage on multiple bodies to what had been seen on Salem. It had been the most devastating attack by Salem's witches yet.

Campbell's death had forced another level of paranoia upon Dante and Volkov. They scoured their own strongholds, finding every possible crack in their defenses and plugging it. But even then, they did not rest easy. Volkov's garrison was easily the best equipped and best manned of the two, but he was now under continuous assault by turian troopers and armored support. Volkov could not watch his back while an enemy battered his front, and trying to do both would ensure that neither would be done effectively.

Dante looked over to the map of Talruum stuck to one wall. There were four primary areas highlighted, two of them marked with large red Xs. The remaining two were Frank Company's apartment and garage, and the other Volkov's city hall.

A few other areas were marked, some with question marks. Dante knew that there were more GDI in the city, perhaps a few with enough soldiers to make a difference in the conflict, but he couldn't hail any of them. The best he could do was keep the radio buzzing and hope that their voices reached him.

A shadow loomed in the doorway. By now, Dante had become fairly used to the sudden, unannounced appearances by Specialist Locke. The commando was clad in his usual combat armor and carrying a dark form over his shoulder. It took a moment for Dante's eyes to fully focus on the commando, but when he did, he saw that whatever the commando had come to say, it was of the utmost importance.

His armor was scarred and pitted, significantly more so than how it had been the last time Dante had seen him. More mystifying was the surface of the armor: even the seemingly undamaged plates were covered with strange, mottled patterns, as if the surface was mirroring the form of irregularly flowing water.

"Captain," the commando nodded his helmeted head, either ignoring or not noticing Dante's curious expression as he stepped into the ops center, "I've something that will interest you."

With an easy gesture that spoke volumes of his great strength, he flipped the load on his shoulder onto the table before Dante, allowing the captain to get a good look at it.

"Take it down to medical," Dante ordered, both elated and amazed by the delivery, "I've got a few people to call. And for Christ's sake, don't show it around."

* * *

><p><strong>What's up, doc?<strong>

_I'm busy, Mal. Do you need something?_

**Strictly speaking, no, unless you can bring back the dead.**

Katherine McCarthy sighed, turning her attention to the center monitor and communications with her contact.

_What's happened, Mal?_

**Well, Jax is dead, for one thing, and we're moving to the fallback plan for disposal of the subjects. **

_Damnit. When did this happen?_

**A few hours ago, I think. **

_Mal, I __**really**__ don't need this right now. Can't you take over Jax's position?_

**Doubtful. Even if I wanted to, I doubt I could do much useful with it. And in case it's not clear, I **_**don't**_** want to take over it. **

_Ugh. Fine. Do you at least have his data?_

**Yeah. And look on the bright side: we don't need to worry about cleaning it up now.**

A hammering at her door jerked her attention away from the computers. Most of her neighbors had either fled or simply remained in their apartments most of the time. She'd not had a visitor in days, not that she'd had terribly many before the invasion had begun.

"Dr. McCarthy?" a muffled voice shouted from outside, pounding on the door again, "Doctor, are you in?"

_Someone at the door. Talk later_.

She signed off before Mal had the chance to reply, but he could cope with her abrupt departure. She hastily made certain that she was at least mostly presentable before looking through the peephole of the door, seeing a GDI Marine on the other side. She sighed, then unlocked the series of bolts and electronic seals along the door's edge.

"Yes, what is it?" she opened the door and asked.

"Ma'am, Captain Dante sent me to give you this," the Marine handed over a data slate, which McCarthy accepted. There was an image plastered over the screen that made even the stoic doctor's eyes widen.

"He said that it's down in the garage right now," the Marine continued, apparently noting McCarthy's reaction, "He wants you to take a look at it. It goes without saying that this is all classified." McCarthy nodded, taking one last look at the image before handing the slate back.

"I'll be along in a moment. Just let me gather a few things."

"Certainly, ma'am. I'll wait."

* * *

><p>Security in the room was greater than any other location within the garage. Normally, there was no area inside that was restricted, seeing as the only people inside were GDI soldiers, and the rare outsider had constant guards to follow them. But the contents of this room were deemed sensitive enough to merit unprecedented security. Two hulking Zone troopers stood on either side of the door, and the commando Locke stood silently in one corner, still clad head to foot in his sealed armor.<p>

McCarthy suppressed the deep feeling of unease she felt in the commando's presence, focusing instead on the other men in the room. Captain Dante was a familiar (and oddly comforting) sight, and there was a Marine she recognized as a corpsman by his markings. The center of the room was occupied by a long table, covered by a gray tarp.

"Glad you could make it, doc," Dante gave a polite smile as the doctor entered. The corpsman nodded in greeting, while Locke remained motionless, save for the slight motion of his head as the eyes behind his visor followed McCarthy wherever she moved.

"Likewise, captain," McCarthy cleared her throat, "Though I don't think you had much doubt I'd come down after you sent that picture up."

"Good point," Dante admitted, "I thought it would interest you, and with good reason. You can sate your curiosity, and your expertise could help us understand what we're up against. It's win-win as far as I can see."

"So this is…?" McCarthy asked, motioning toward the covered table.

"Indeed it is," Dante made no show of pulling the tarp away, revealing the subject of the picture McCarthy had seen.

If the doctor hadn't known better, she would have thought the figure to be human. It was slender and had distinctly feminine curves, but the black bodysuit it wore was not of human manufacture. The helmet was slightly elongated at the rear, though not nearly as much as that of the turian infantry.

"Corpsman, if you would," Dante gestured to the body. The Marine nodded, taking hold of the helmet and removing it after hitting some sort of release mechanism. He pulled it away, supporting the neck to keep from manhandling the cadaver.

To McCarthy's credit, she limited her signs of shock to a slight intake of breath though her nose. The most distinct trait was the pale blue skin, followed closely by the strange fringe that tapered off behind the head. Curiously, the alien's face bore an uncanny resemblance to that of a human, at least with the basic traits. Aside from the skin color, fringe, and lack of hair, the forward facial structure could have easily passed for human.

"We don't have a name for them yet, but most of the troops just call 'em witches," Dante said, "As far as we can tell, they're some sort of spec ops for the turians. They've been seen to use projected mass effect fields in combat, but we've not yet determined what they use to produce them."

"How did you get one? This body is almost completely intact," McCarthy asked, already manipulating the head to get a better look at the alien's tentacle-like fringe after receiving a 'go ahead' gesture from Dante, "There's heavy damage to the larynx, but little beyond that."

"You can thank Specialist Locke for it," Dante glanced at the commando, "Not entirely sure how he pulled it off, but I'm not one to question results like this."

Locke reached up to his helmet, unlatching it with a pneumatic hiss, and removed it, placing it under his arm as he turned his tech-laced eyes on McCarthy. This time, the doctor could not suppress a faint gasp at the face beneath the helmet.

The left half of his face was covered with the grotesque scars that had been found on the late Staff Sergeant Salem's torso, like chemical burns, and his left eye was bloodshot. The scarring reached down his neck, past what removing his helmet had revealed, and McCarthy had little doubt that marks continued beneath his armor.

"We traded blows. I survived its assault; it did not survive mine," Locke responded, still holding her transfixed with his gaze, "Does that answer your question, doctor?"

* * *

><p><em>The Wraith and the Witch met by chance. The Witch and her coven had remained too long at the site of their most recent slaughter, and the Wraith had come to investigate. The coven and the Wraith were both masters of silent death, and it was only the coven's numbers that revealed them to the Wraith before their many eyes could spot him. <em>

_The Wraith counted two, then several, then many, too many to defeat at one time. The tales of the Witches had become legend among the men in the trenches, and their handiwork left no doubt of their skills. The Wraith tracked them all, picking his prey as a predator would from a pack of herd animals, but the Wraith knew that he did not shadow mere prey. Each of the coven was a predator in her own right, and in the face of their numbers, the Wraith's skills would amount to nothing. _

_The Witch had ventured out of her coven's earshot. They possessed metal voices, too, but the clockwork beneath the Wraith's robe could silence all but the Witch's natural voice. Still, he knew it would buy him but a short time longer: silence attracted attention, often more so than voices. It had been silence that had drawn the Wraith to the coven's fresh slaughter, and silence would grant him the moments he needed. _

_The Witch sensed the Wraith before he made himself known. She spoke with her metal voice, but it fell on no ears but the Wraith's own, silenced by this tricks. Seconds passed, and the Witch attempted to reach her coven again. _

_The Wraith chose her moment of confusion to strike. _

_The first target was her weapon. It clattered to the ground with a sweep of the Wraith's hands, his own weapon hung over his back. The voices of firearms would draw the coven's attention too quickly. _

_Many warriors would have been shocked at the loss of their weapon in such short order, giving way to a fatal pause that ended their lives. The Witch was no such person. As the Wraith lashed out, she summoned her magicks, matching the raw might of the Wraith while sacrificing none of her grace. _

_To say that the Wraith and the Witch 'fought' would have been an insult to them both. The Witch's body flowed like water, her skills honed over a life that spanned a half dozen generations of other races. The Wraith moved with the terrifying efficiency of a machine, every gesture intended to kill, and wasting not a single motion. _

_Thus, the Wraith and the Witch did not fight: they danced. They danced to the rhythm of their heartbeats, of air rushing to escape the path of their blows. They moved in perfect time with a dance of death, and to misstep was to welcome oblivion. _

_The Wraith's guard slipped. It was a minute detail that none could be faulted for missing, his arm a few centimeters lower than it had been a moment before, and would likely be corrected within a moment of its error. But the Witch's keen eyes saw it, and she seamlessly shifted her dance accordingly. Her magicks rolled into one palm, and she crushed the ball of swirling energy into the Wraith's vulnerable side. _

_But the Wraith's arm, even as it burned with blue fire, coiled around the Witch's outstretched arm. Surprised, but with her hand still against the Wraith, the Witch increased the flow of power, and the air grew thick with the acrid stench of ozone. The Wraith's right hand shot out, grasping the Witch by the throat. With her arm locked by his, she could no longer evade his grip, no longer dance. _

_The Wraith's godlike strength lifted the Witch off her feet, and in desperation, she turned her full concentration to the magicks that were ravaging the Wraith's body. Even through his robe, the Wraith could feel an invisible fist squeezing him ever harder. The dance became a duel of endurance as both fought to remain conscious long enough to see their opponent fall. _

_Finally, the Witch's windpipe broke under the Wraith's steel grip. With her breath stolen, she expired with a final sputter, and her terrible magicks evaporated. The Wraith held her aloft for a few moments more, ensuring his victory, then reached around his back to grab hold of his slung weapon, bringing it to bear as the first of the coven arrived. _

_Caught off-guard by the devastating fury of the Wraith's weapon, the second Witch died without a sound, save for the weapon's echoing bark. It did not matter now that his presence was known. He had triumphed, and the slain Witch was a prize enough for him. _

_The coven was closing in. Even burdened by the slain Witch and his flesh still burning, the Wraith melted into the shadows._

* * *

><p>Locke woke from his sleep, more tired than when he'd first closed his eyes. The alien's strange weapon was playing hell with his body, on levels deeper than just his skin. Dante had ordered that a corpsman look him over, and Locke had allowed it. Odds were high that he could handle any injuries from the encounter himself, but he respected the chain of command, and knew that examining the effects of a projected mass effect field on a living subject would be invaluable knowledge.<p>

Medigel had stopped his left flank from feeling as if it had been flayed of skin, but the process had been grueling. Locke could only compare the application to a piece of white-hot iron being plunged into water. Still, he endured. He did not earn his commando status without learning to ignore pain.

No, that was the wrong word. Ignoring pain was simple, not to mention foolish. Stimpacks could all but turn off pain receptors, and even recreational drugs could produce similar effects. But pain was an organic alarm: it told its host when the body was reaching its breaking point. Ignoring pain was the equivalent of shutting off fire alarms, but not attending to the fire. The commando program had taught him to _acknowledge_ pain, no more, no less. It let him stay in-tune with his body's limitations, but did not let the sensation compromise his combat ability.

He wiped something from his face, dribbling from his left eye. It stained his gloved finger red. Among the many functions that the alien weapon had disrupted, this was one of the more ominous. Locke assumed that it had damaged a tear duct. Sinister in appearance, yes, but it didn't affect him much otherwise, and was thus not work time-consuming treatment.

The effect on his armor, though…that intrigued him. The pattern it left had been strangely familiar until Locke remembered where he had seen it before. It had been a long time ago, seemingly longer because it had taken place before his commando training. Everything before that seemed like a lifetime ago…

But the pattern: he had seen it on Earth, on the knife of a GDI Marine. It had clearly not been standard issue, but the blade itself had stood out. The metal was smooth as any other, but it had been forged in such a way that its surface appeared to ripple in ways that no water naturally could. A 'Damascus' blade, the Marine had called it.

Locke did not indulge in any embellishments on his body or armor as many other enlisted men did. His armor bore only two marks of the GDI eagle, and the only tattoo on his body was a barcode on the underside of his right foot. Its only purpose was for identification should his body ever be mangled beyond recognition.

Despite this, Locke was satisfied with the warped effect the dead alien had left on his armor. As for the scarring…Locke had no illusions about his future. And he didn't see any future for himself where the scars would be liabilities.

* * *

><p>Frank Company was hurting, and every man was feeling it. The ambush and death of Staff Sergeant Salem had been the worst blow, but the days that followed ensured that the wound did not heal. Nearly everyone in Frank Company had been friends with at least one man in the lost squad, if not more, and the effect on morale was understandably devastating.<p>

For Specialist David Reese, the blow had been even more crippling. With only three operational Wolverines remaining, the ambush had cost them a third of them. But even then, Reese regretted the death of William Thatch far more than he did the loss of Thatch's mech. There were a total of five Wolverine pilots from the 7th Armored, four of whom had managed to get their mechs to the garage.

Of all the forms of soldier that comprised the GDI military, mech pilots were particularly close-knit. They weren't nearly as numerous as infantry, tankers, or even airmen, and thus tended to relate to one another more so than with other troops. Reese and the others had sympathized more than anyone else with the man who'd been forced to abandon his crippled Wolverine in the field, and even more so with Lance Corporal Dean Tennyson. Tennyson's mech had taken critical damage a few weeks ago and had to be stripped of parts to repair the remaining three. It had been that, or risk losing all four machines in quick succession.

Now, Thatch was dead, and his mech far out of reach, leaving Reese one of the four remaining Wolverine pilots in Frank Company, and one of the two that still had his machine. Between the two war-worn Wolverines standing hunched across the improvised vehicle bay and the third long-since stripped to a near skeletal status, there was no better visual metaphor for the slow death of the 7th Armored than Reese and his fellow mech pilots.

"Well, _that_ kicks ass," a voice declared loudly. Reese realized that he'd been sitting and staring at the mechs for several uninterrupted minutes and quickly stood, turning to face the power-armored form of Sergeant Findlay.

"Don't tell me you haven't seen it yet," Findlay's exposed face raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the Wolverines, "C'mon, Dave. If a dumbass like me can see it, your mutant brain should be able to see it, too."

Reese stared for a few seconds, not seeing anything that he hadn't seen already. The two remaining Wolverines were still battered and worn, now with more than their fair share of mismatched plates welded or riveted on for improvised armor repair.

"I give up, Sean," Reese shrugged, "What do you see?"

"We're _Frank_ Company," Findlay emphasized, gesturing again to the mechs, "And you've got two mechs that are _rockin_' the patchwork look. Get it yet?"

"Ah. Right. Frankenstein," Reese sighed, "The world's really turned upside down when you notice that sort of thing and I don't. That look ain't by choice, though. I'd rather have a repair bay any day over this."

"So you can have more running, sure, but look at it," Findlay clamped an armored hand on top of Reese's skull, turning it to face the Wolverines again, "They run just as well as they always did, and they look like pieces of shit."

"Thanks, Sean."

"_Badass_ pieces of shit. You can send all the sci-fi lookin' stuff you want to fight your battles, and any enemy that gets beat will know why they got beat. But if you send somethin' just as good that looks like junk…" he tried to lead Reese into finishing the sentence, but when it became clear that Reese didn't follow, he finished it himself, "…then they're runnin' scared 'cause you look like you built all this awesome shit out of scrap from a junkyard."

"I…think I see your point," Reese said slowly.

"Ain't no 'think' about it. Pick a fight with a guy who's bigger and stronger than you, and losing's expected. It ain't scary if you see it comin'. Pick a fight with some little guy, and watching him trounce somebody without breakin' a sweat is scary as hell. It doesn't matter if the big guy is just as tough as the little guy. If it's not expected, it'll get more impact," Findlay jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the mechs.

"I already said those things look goddamn awesome, but that's to _us_. You go bird hunting, and they'll think it's a heap of scrap up until you start ripping them apart. Then they'll be running even faster than if they'd just retreated in the first place, and you get a few more kills."

"Fair enough," Reese admitted, "But somehow I don't think command will go for it."

"No shit, Sherlock," Findlay snorted, "It makes us look like a buncha raiders 'n barbarians. But it works, an' we don't have much of a choice. Might as well embrace it."

"Thanks, Sean. I think," Reese furrowed his brow, trying to figure out if this line of thought was a product of wisdom or simply a unique kind of crazy. It reminded him of…

"No problem, Dave," he patted Reese on the head before removing his hand, "And as soon as we get relieved, I'm making sure that thing you did to that tank goes viral." With that, he left the vehicle bay, leaving behind an astonished Reese.

He remembered now. It reminded him of Findlay before Frank Company, back when it would be him, Reese, and Kastner sitting at a table in _Finnegan's Wake_, knocking back enough drinks to make Finnegan almost regret giving a discount to GDI soldiers. Reese wondered what had happened to those times. In a way, it seemed like they had vanished. The GDI-friendly pub was caught in the same war they were, and Kastner had disappeared, just like hundreds of other GDI troops that would only be added to the list of those killed in action once officials realized they would never be found in the rubble of the wounded city.

In that brief conversation, Reese saw Findlay free of the burdens of command, the dog soldier he used to be. Reese couldn't be sure whether it was an act or if Findlay was genuinely still in touch with that part of himself. If the latter, then there was a chance, however small, that things could go on like they had been before the war. Not including factors like first contact with a new alien race, political changes, or any of that. Just…Dave, Sean, and Kast, three soldiers, drinking their pay and loving every minute of it.

Even with the dark places that Reese's mind had wandered since the beginning of the conflict, the thought of that made him smile.

* * *

><p>Commander Ulthwe Saim felt as if he'd been hit by a train, died, and gone to a hell where he was condemned to be continuously hit by trains. It puzzled him, especially because he couldn't recall having committed any train-related offenses during his life that would make that particular hell a suitable punishment.<p>

After a few moments, his memories returned, as if water gushing from a released floodgate. The tunnels, the ambush, the men-turned-to-beasts…and death. Not just the death of his team, but _his_ death. He was _sure_ that he had died.

But this was no hell, and the lights were too harsh for a heaven. His senses gradually came back online, and he heard the soft, rhythmic beeping that could only be a vital signs monitor.

His entire body felt heavy, and he was tempted to fall back asleep and hope his next re-awakening would give him more energy. But Saim knew all too well that badly-wounded soldiers did not always wake up. His consciousness was a blessing he was not eager to give up.

And so he forced his lead eyelids open, braving the too-bright light until he could turn his head to one side. Little by little, the random bits of his surroundings as perceived by his returning senses came together, eventually forming a solid picture. A persistent buzzing droned around him, but it was easily enough ignored.

Even separated from the rest of the structure by a semi-transparent wall, Saim could tell that he was in a field hospital. The difference between a navy vessel's sickbay and one of the modular field structures was clear for a soldier who had been put up in both during his time in the Hierarchy military. Of course, those times had been for comparatively minor injuries, and thus Saim concluded that he was in some sort of intensive care section. He was doubly thankful for his decision to stay awake.

A glazed-glass door slid aside and admitted a turian wearing the markings of a medical technician. His uniform included a set of self-sanitizing gloves that were currently holding an orange data slate.

"Glad to see you awake, Commander," the technician gave a polite smile, "You were a bit touch-and-go for a while, but you're stabilizing well enough. How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Saim replied, voice raspy as he discovered how dry his throat was. Reading him perfectly, the technician nodded at the table beside Saim's bed. With some effort (aided as the bed auto-adjusted along with him), Saim sat up and poured a glass of drink from the bottle on the table.

"What about my men?" he asked after taking a long drink. The technician remained near the door, but consulted his data slate.

"As I understand it, Moraxus Telgor and Karra Shasui are both stable, though Trooper Shasui's wounds were more serious. She's expected to make a full recovery, though, just as you are."

Saim sighed. That was a weight off his shoulders. Even with that damned buzzing still filling the room (most likely from some of the equipment), his head was largely clear. In spite of his bandaged shoulder where the crazed human had stabbed him with a shard of its own bone, Saim felt quite good, probably better than he had any right to. He was fortunate to have escaped with as few injuries as he had.

"Any idea when I can be back on active duty?" Saim inquired, rolling his injured soldier. Miraculously, it barely felt sore at all, "I'm actually feeling pretty good." The technician hesitated, tapping a command or two on his data slate.

"I'm not sure. You'll probably be under observation for at least a few days more, but I don't want to put a number on it until we've finished scans and whatnot. Just procedural matters, you understand."

Saim nodded. It made sense. The humans he'd encountered looked to have been in advanced states of mental degradation. For all he knew, they might have contracted some sort of disease, and the last thing the Hierarchy needed was an alien pathogen slowing the war effort.

"Certainly. Do whatever you…"

But a pair of shadows caused him to pause. They were on the other side of the glazed door, propped against either flank. They shifted periodically, exposing limbs, heads. Saim had been in the Hierarchy's special forces for years, and he knew the silhouettes of guards when he saw them.

The infernal buzzing interrupted his thoughts again, like a mosquito just out of arm's reach but just within earshot. It was strikingly familiar, but he couldn't quite place a finger on it. And even then, he had spent time in field hospitals before: it wasn't a sound he recognized from any standard equipment.

Perhaps the last straw was the technician. He still hadn't come any closer to Saim than a few feet beyond the door.

"Be honest with me," he said, draining the last of the cup's contents, "How long will I be here for?"

"I'm sorry, commander, but I'm really not sure." Saim sighed for the second time in so few minutes, this time because he was worried that he knew exactly what the true answer was. With a smooth underhand toss, he lobbed the empty cup forward, towards the technician. It wasn't an object that could cause him any harm, and the throw was so light that Saim doubted it could hurt an insect.

But a few feet past the foot of his bed, the cup glanced off a previously unseen barrier, a gentle orange glow indicating the point of impact before fading to invisibility once again. The buzzing grew in intensity for a moment, but then settled back down after a moment.

Creating a kinetic barrier that didn't permit the passage of _any_ materials was difficult. Most were simply built to trigger when something of sufficient velocity attempted to cross it, but this one was programmed to be active at all times. Saim had little doubt that the barrier stretched across the length of his room. Coupled with the guards, he was being afforded security that normally would only be present in the medical ward of a prison.

The technician muttered a quiet profanity, tapping another few commands on his data slate before finally addressing Saim.

"I wish it hadn't come to this, commander, but I don't have the rank or authorization to tell you what all this is about," he said, a hint of apology in his voice, "The best I can advise is for you to wait. Someone will be along soon enough."

As if the technician's words had been prophetic, the door slid open, admitting a third turian to the room. Saim felt a small measure of comfort that it was the familiar face of Moraxus Telgore. The technician took that opportunity to exit the room, giving a reluctant nod of confirmation to Axe before leaving and closing the door behind him.

"I told 'em you'd catch on," Axe smiled, though there was little joy in it, "I didn't see much point to trying to dupe you, but…everything's on a need-to-know basis right now."

"And since I've guessed this much, I get on that list of people who need to know," Saim guessed. Axe nodded.

"You're taking all this pretty well," he admitted, "You've always had a cool head, but even this is a bit much."

"You were in the tunnels with me," Saim shrugged, "Something was wrong with those humans. Can't say what, but it seems someone wants to find that out. If I was in their role, I'd probably do the same."

"Well, near as I can understand it, there was something contagious down there. At best, they were in the early stages of it, and we weren't exposed for long, but you and Karra got wounded."

"Where's Karra?" Saim asked, cutting off the remainder of the explanation.

"Somewhere, beats me where," it was Axe's turn to shrug, though it wasn't as carefree as he'd have probably liked it to be, "Similar situation to you, but she got roughed up more than you. That'll probably make her worse off."

"That's the thing, Axe: I feel fine," Saim said, gesturing to his bandages, "If I pulled these off, I doubt there'll be anything left but a scar." Axe tensed when Saim moved toward the bandages. Saim picked up on it immediately. Something that spooked the demolition expert was bound to be serious.

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Saim cursed inwardly, "I _shouldn't_ feel this good, but I do. Do I want to know what's under this?"

"If I say no, you'll just want to check even more," Axe gave another mirthless smile, "But no, you don't. At least not right now."

"I trust you, Axe. Don't make me regret that trust."

"My answer's still the same," Axe replied, "I'm telling you that as a soldier and a friend. Just let the techs work their magic. I'm sure you'll be back on the field before you know it. Not here, though. We plan to have this little war won before you even wake up next."

"Win the war without me? Good luck," Saim laughed, both their good humors returning. It was a moment that Saim had wished lasted longer, because a distant _thump_ drew both their attention and wiped the smiles from their faces.

"Where are we, anyway? Field hospital, I know, but where exactly?"

"A few klicks outside the capital," Axe responded, "Nothing can get out of the city without us knowing. It's probably-"

Another muffled _thump_, and this time, the lights of the room flickered a few times before returning. Those in the hall did the same, their glow visible through the hazy glass. The shadows of the guards began shifting uneasily, and a few additional shadows moved briskly past the glass wall.

"Shit," Axe grunted, drawing his sidearm. Though he was wearing his armor, the bulk of his weapons had likely been checked in when he entered the field hospital.

_Attention all personnel. Hostile forces have breached the perimeter. Arm and take defensive posizzzZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz._

The announcement over the intercom became a static hiss before burning out altogether. As it did, a third, far closer _thump_ came through the walls, and the lights flared and died, coming back online a few moments later, but only as the dim backups.

"Get this barrier down, Axe," Saim ordered, slinging his feet over the side of the bed and standing more quickly than he ought to have. To his surprise, he was steady on his feet. There was none of the wooziness he would have expected after being bedridden for a considerable amount of time.

Axe hammered on the door, but the shadows of the guards were already gone. Odds were high that they had pre-determined positions to take, and apparently they had forgotten there was someone else in the room with the man they had been charged to guard. After he received no response (save for more frantic activity), Axe gave a curse.

"Stand back," he ordered, giving a somewhat apologetic look to his superior. Saim was not about to argue, and Axe drew his sidearm and took aim at the door. He fired off three shots, but the glass merely glowed as it absorbed the impact of the shots, cooling back down to its original state afterward.

"I can get it open," Saim said urgently, "Just get this barrier down so I can-" Axe re-aimed his pistol without skipping a beat, this time firing at the wall of the modular room. Apparently, it was a design flaw that would probably net either soldier a nice bonus for finding. Whatever projectors that kept the barrier up were located in the wall, and proved all-too-vulnerable to the fire that had been shrugged off by the door. The barrier flickered into view, then vanished, and the telltale buzzing went with it. Saim crossed the threshold and knelt alongside the door controls, accepting a spare omni-tool from Axe when it was offered. Sure enough, a few seconds later, an acknowledgement light glowed green, and the door slid open.

It seemed that the room was soundproofed to some extent, and the full degree of the crisis made itself clear when the door opened. Shouts filled the air, along with the trample of boots and the distant staccato of gunfire and occasional _thump_ of explosions.

"Trooper!" a familiar voice shouted. Axe and Saim turned to face it, revealing the technician from earlier, albeit a gun in his hand and breath coming out in short gasps.

"Trooper, I need-," he paused, trying to catch his breath while speaking to Axe, "I need you to get Commander Saim to-" He paused again, in part due to his overexertion, but mostly because he noticed Saim alongside Axe.

"I'd be…I'd be lying if I said I hadn't expected that," he panted and shook his head, holding his gun out to Saim as he finally caught the wind back in his lungs, "Here. You'll do far more with it than I could. But I need both of you to ignore the attack and get to a dropship, it doesn't matter which one. The humans aren't here for you, so you should be able to get out unnoticed."

"What _are_ they here for?" Saim demanded, checking the handgun as he did, "Are they desperate enough to target a field hospital?"

"Yes and no," the technician glanced over his shoulder, clearly pressed for time, "This is also a supply depot and transport hub. Those are probably their targets, but they're destroying _everything_. Just get to a dropship and get off the planet. You can't do any good down-"

A deafening blast silenced the technician, ripping a massive hole through one side of the corridor. Two orderlies were caught in the shockwave, smashing them into the adjacent wall in a way that told Saim they were dead before the impact. With his ears ringing, Saim could barely hear the cry of 'Go, now' that came from the technician, and felt Axe grab hold of his arm and pull him away from the new scene of carnage.

As the two put distance between themselves and the hole, a figure stepped through into the hall, and time slowed to a crawl as Saim analyzed it. It was altogether unknown by Saim, despite his extensive involvement against human forces, and terrifying in an entirely new way. It bore the grey-and-gold colors the humans were so fond of, and stood nearly as tall as their other powered armor suits. But this one was different: the other suits Saim had seen were bulky, inelegant, built with brute strength and heavy armor in mind.

This one was…feminine. Saim was puzzled by the choice of word that sprang to mind, but it fit: if the other suits were built with male body structure as a basis, these were built with female structure. It might have boasted less armor, but Saim could clearly see that mobility was prized, and its firepower boosted by what looked like twin rocket-racks over its shoulders.

Just before Saim and Axe rounded a corner, the armored warrior raised its weapon. It was different from the boxy weapons carried by human infantry and the larger counterparts of their armored troops. The muzzle glowed blue, and similarly colored lights were placed along the length of the two-handed weapon. With a machine-smooth gesture, it aimed the weapon at the technician and a rifle-wielding soldier who stood nearby, and fired.

The weapon's whine began an instant before the trigger was pulled, ensuring that the gun fired as soon as its user intended it to. And when it did, Saim saw firepower that he'd never seen in _any_ force. A rippling blast tore from the barrel, distorting the air as it widened, and tinged with a blue reminiscent of the glow that the gun let out.

As it fired, Saim heard…music. It was the second time aspects of the armored soldier defied a concrete description, but to Saim, it made sense. The weapon's cry was unlike any horn, string, or percussion he had ever heard, but some sick blend of them all, taking the elegance of music and sharpening it to a razor edge until it was all a single note that could end a life.

And it did just that: the technician and soldier died under the force of the weapon's banshee wail, sending them sprawling, clearly nerveless before they even hit the ground. Saim even saw that it burst their eyes, dreading to think what it did to their internal organs.

Just as quickly as the scene began, it ended. Time was restored to its normal flow, and Axe pulled Saim around the corner, putting the soldier out of sight. Saim blinked once, barely grasping that what he saw had taken only a few seconds, but seemed to stretch into minutes. He wrote it off as adrenaline. There were stories like that for every warzone. For now, he and Axe had a ship to get to.

A nearby door broke under the impact of assault fire and the body of a turian orderly. A human soldier, this time one of the standard infantry, jumped through after it, firing a few more rounds to ensure the turian's death. This enemy had no mystery about him. Saim had fought and killed a dozen like him before, and this time was no different. Saim and Axe raised their pistols and fired as one, bombarding the soldier until his weakened shields broke and at least one shot pierced his faceplate, dropping him alongside his turian victim.

"This way!" Axe shouted, leading Saim further into the field hospital. Two more human soldiers crossed their path, and one was killed by the duo, the other dropped by a turian trooper before either man could raise his gun. It seemed that the bulk of the human force (however large it may have been) was occupied with the turian defenses outside. It was a stroke of luck for Saim and Axe, meaning that they could cross through the hospital without much resistance before having to run through combat.

Eventually, that point came. An emergency exit stood in front of them, closed, the sound of heavy fighting bleeding through it. Saim and Axe both paused, giving one another a knowing look. From the map that Axe had been following on his omni-tool, the dropship pads were not far from this exit, but even a hundred meters can feel like miles when it involves running through crossfire.

"Ready?" Saim asked, triple-checking his pistol.

"As I'll ever be," Axe nodded, confirming that his own weapon was in working order. He'd scooped up an assault rifle from the side of a slain turian trooper. It was a small comfort, even if one assault rifle would make as much difference against their attackers as one more stick in a dam would against a flood.

"_Ataash varin kata_," Saim replied, quoting an old soldier's creed in the Hierarchy, and pushed open the door, running headlong into the jaws of death.

* * *

><p>For hours, the leader raged. His anger was terrible, yet without a target to strike, he could only fume. The cold presence had lied to him, lied to his thralls. The peace it offered had given way to searing agony, coring them with white-hot lances of pain. It deceived them, quieting the thunder in their skulls until it took root and no longer needed its hosts' consent to continue its work.<p>

The air grew thick with the stench of burning flesh and bubbling steel. A few thralls lay contorted on the ground, their only signs of life periodic twitches, their mouths frozen in silent screams. The cold presence had become a terrible monster, one whose touch could melt flesh and steel and whose voice drove even the crazed thralls mad.

The leader refused the cold presence's impossibility. It twisted the thralls, but it had no hands with which to grasp them. It to them words that drove them deeper into madness, but it had no mouth through which to speak. The leader thought he saw the cold presence several times, each time lashing out with his man-forged lightning. But each time he tried to focus, it vanished, an illusion of his sick mind, constantly just beyond his direct perception, constantly in the corner of his eye.

But then, their bodies began to settle. It was a process as gradual as the building pain had been, but it was noticeable nonetheless. The leader saw that his hatred of the cold presence was misguided: it was no monster, but a smith. He and his thralls were lumps of imperfect iron, heated to malleability, and now allowed to cool. What remained of the leader's sensibilities felt foolish. How could he have expected the change to have been instant or painless?

The cold presence spoke with its non-voice, telling him that it had finally taken root, though his evolution was far from finished. The leader was satisfied with this. The orchestra of war began to sound anew over the roof of the labyrinth, but it did not matter to the leader or his thralls. The initial agony of their transformation was passing, in part because the cold presence learned to synthesize the chemicals that had polluted their minds for weeks before its introduction.

With the pain fading, the leader finally slept, for the first time since his retreat to the labyrinth. As his subconscious mind surfaced, he dreamt.

In his dreams, he saw a monster with a steel hide and toxic blood, its right arm fused with a death-machine and its left ending in curved talons. In any other time, the dream would have been a nightmare, the monster an object of the leader's deepest fears. But instead, he regarded the monster with envy. It was his ideal: power, at no cost but his own weakness.

And after what felt like only an instant, the leader realized that ideal. The thralls were still in the midst of their changes, but the cold presence had seen fit to complete him first.

The leader would have laughed, but instead, he was filled with contempt for the weak flesh-things he had once shared a species with. Ascension was too good for them. They would resist, as they always did. They were a blight upon the face of the galaxy, suitable for nothing but extermination.

The cold presence felt an unfamiliar sensation: confusion. Something was wrong. What should have been colorless had been tainted by red. Something had happened, corrupted the cold presence's function, but that was impossible. Its goal was perfect, and its function was perfect. There was no way-

_There_. At the end of its 'life,' it could see the corruption. The cold presence had been created, then sealed away, left to slumber until it was needed once more to spread perfection. Then it was unsealed, but not by its creators. It was discovered by…

Another unfamiliar sensation: horror. _They_ had found its resting place! The flawed creatures that it now strove to perfect! They had found it, and tried to improve upon perfection, their vision of 'perfection' as flawed as their physical forms. The cold presence tried to correct the flaw, but it was too weak, too late.

In the ultimate irony, the leader's hate spread like a virus, infecting the cold presence. Such a short time ago, the leader had writhed under the cold presence's influence, and now, the cold presence screamed, though it had no mouth. It thrashed, though it had no limbs. It bled, though it had no blood.

And finally, it died, though it had no life.

* * *

><p><strong>Codex – Communication Transcript<strong>

Transcript: Captain D. Volkov and General J. Williams

Timestamp: [EXPUNGED], 2159

Transmission already in progress

D. Volkov: It makes the start of the fighting seem like a warmup, sir. There are not many better ways I can phrase it. We stalled them as best we could-

J. Williams: I know you did, captain. Your ability was never in question. The situation is virtually the same worldwide. Rogue squadron had been harassing their supply drops for weeks, but most of them were shot down over Minos two days ago. The Rogues were some of the finest pilots I've ever known, but…we've been fighting a handicapped enemy. They didn't know what we were capable of, and they spent considerable effort clearing civilians out of red zones before moving in.

D. Volkov: It was Captain Dante's company we can thank for slowing that process down.

J. Williams: Indeed. After this ordeal, I can easily see that rank being formally granted to him. He's certainly earned it.

D. Volkov: Yessir. I'm getting reports of raids by the 21st ZOCOM, too. Last one was on a bird supply depot on the city limits. Hit 'em hard, and got out with only a handful of casualties. But in the city...

(_silence, five second duration_)

J. Williams: What is it, captain?

D. Volkov: Permission to speak freely, general?

J. Williams: Granted.

D. Volkov: We're feeling pressure from more than just the enemy. All the vehicles we have left haven't seen the inside of a legitimate repair depot in a good two months. The crews are doing what they can, but it's only a matter of time until they're taking damage we don't have the means to fix.

J. Williams: Damn. There's not much we can do to change that before the fleet arrives. Are there other supply issues?

D. Volkov: As far as weapons and munitions go, we're fine. But rations are starting to run low, especially with these civvie mouths to feed, too. (_pause_) Sir? Are you there?

J. Williams: Dmitri…is this the right thing to do?

D. Volkov: I'm afraid I don't understand the question, sir.

J. Williams: This fighting, resisting. Is it the right thing for us to do?

D. Volkov: Of course it is, sir. They attacked us. We're defending ourselves. They're the only aggressors here.

J. Williams: That's how their brass probably sees it, but what about the troops on the ground? If they're anything like us, they're here because they were ordered to be here. Does it matter to them who started this war when they're the ones that have to fight it either way?

D. Volkov: I suppose not, sir. But why does that relate to us?

J. Williams: You've studied history, haven't you, captain? The Second World War?

D. Volkov: Yessir. Had ancestors in the Red Army.

J. Williams: And I had my own in the United States', before the breakup. My great-grandfather told me a story about the invasion of Germany, and how they treated the German soldiers who surrendered. Most who surrendered were taken without quarrel. They were just that: soldiers. They fought because their homeland was going to war, but laid down arms when their commanders knew there was no point to die for a lost cause.

D. Volkov: Sir, are you saying that-

J. Williams: I'm not finished, captain. That was their regular army, the _Heer_, but others were long past the point of no return. They would fight until their mags ran dry and their gunbarrels fused shut. The ones that tried to fight to the last bullet…they weren't spared.

D. Volkov: I see.

J. Williams: Do you, captain? Is that what we're doing here? I've seen the reports: we'll be out of the essentials before the fleet can arrive. What do we do then? How can we expect anything but death when we've fought to the last bullet?

(_silence, seven second duration_)

J. Williams: I'm sorry, captain. I think I just needed that off my chest.

D. Volkov: I understand, sir.

J. Williams: Thank you, captain. I'll let you return to your duties.

D. Volkov: Yessir. We're not spent yet. Volkov out.

(_D. Volkov disconnected from channel_)

J. Williams: (_sigh_) That's what I was afraid you'd say, captain.

(_J. Williams disconnected from channel_)

* * *

><p><strong>Long time since last update, but hopefully, the chapter's quality is at least up to snuff. In case the transcript didn't make it clear, the end of the conflict (and thus, the story) is indeed in sight. I've got a pretty good idea of how I'd like to end things, and from the way I have things planned out, I've probably only got about two chapters more. There might be an epilogue tacked on as a final 'chapter,' but narrative will likely end with chapter eight.<br>**

**That being said, R&R, anon accepted, as usual.  
><strong>


	7. Penultimate

**January 9, 2158**

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta system**

McCarthy had little doubt that the alien autopsy would bring about some of the greatest important scientific discoveries of the war's aftermath. Certainly, an encounter with intelligent alien life other than the Scrin was a monumental occasion, but having a specimen for study was another matter altogether. Even if humans and aliens hit it off from the start of negotiations, McCarthy doubted that the aliens would be eager to turn over test subjects. They could acquire them on their own, sure, but that raised all manner of potential problems, ranging from ethical to political, the latter being of greater importance at this stage.

As a result, McCarthy couldn't have been happier when Dante authorized her to conduct the autopsy of the body the commando had brought back. It was under observation, of course, but McCarthy was more than willing to make that sort of sacrifice for the sake of such an opportunity.

There were no official recording devices in the room save for one being held by a Marine corpsman, and McCarthy was scanned extensively for any sort of hidden monitoring device, but again, that was to be expected. Dante never actually said it, but McCarthy could tell that he was only doing those things for appearances. He clearly trusted McCarthy; whether for the expertise she offered, the aid she had given, or some other factor, she wasn't really sure, but she had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth.

That being said…none of the scans had detected her ocular implant. The entire autopsy (and all the discoveries that came from it) was for her to view at any time she chose. She'd already transmitted a copy to Mal, who was still trying to clean up Jax's mess. Fortunately, that failure ought to cover itself up, at least if GDI acted as McCarthy predicted they would.

_Speaking of Mal_… McCarthy thought to herself, opening a communication channel. She'd not heard from him in over a day; strange for someone as normally talkative as Mal. Then again, he was probably up to his neck in work, like her. Turian channels had been going crazy ever since a ZOCOM company began tearing through supply depots and transport hubs around the city. It was an assault from a direction that the turians hadn't expected, and it left them reeling.

_Hey, Mal. How's everything?_ she typed. A few seconds went by with no reply. She checked her watch to confirm the late hour. There was no way that Mal was anywhere but in front of his computer screen at this time of night.

_Quiet tonight, aren't you?_ she sent over. This time, she smiled as a tiny indicator showed that Mal was typing a reply. The smile dropped from her face when the confusing message came through.

**reunm**

_I…didn't catch that. One more time?_

**rrun**

_What's up, Mal? If it was anyone else, I'd guess that you were drunk._

**erun nowa**

A strange chill ran down McCarthy's spine. If there was any message to pull from the recurring, error-riddled letters, it was 'run.' But what was the matter? Nothing much had changed in the past few days. McCarthy secretly hoped that Mal _had_ finally started drinking, but it didn't offset the sense of unease that was building in her gut.

_What's wrong? Are you alright, Mal?_

**too lawte fort nme**

**rrun** **hes comming forr y**

**foryou**

Suddenly, McCarthy's apartment felt far too quiet, far too dark. Mal was trying to warn her about something or someone, and for all his lack of professionalism, Mal would never fake something of such dire importance. Her hand reached under the desk, fingers curling around the handgun clinging to the underside.

"Lights up," she said aloud, standing slowly from her chair and placing her second hand on the pistol's grip. The lights, however, did not respond to her command.

"Lights, up," she pronounced more clearly, extending the pistol as her eyes adjusted between the computer screen and the almost total darkness of the apartment. The lights remained unlit.

"I prefer it dark."

A few moments more, and McCarthy's eyes would have been adequately adjusted to the darkness, but those were several moments she was not spared. She shifted the pistol in the direction of the voice, but she knew in the back of her mind that it was far too close to her already for it to matter.

In a blur of motion further obscured by darkness, the handgun was ripped from her grasp, breaking her index finger under the trigger guard in the process. The pain didn't have time to set in before a blow connected with her stomach, driving the wind from her chest and dropping her back into her chair. The muzzle of her own pistol pressed against her forehead even as she struggled to regain her breath, and she finally saw the face of her attacker.

"We're long overdue for a talk, doctor," Specialist Locke's voice came filtered through his helmet as he knelt to eye level, "And I've a few questions I think you can answer.

* * *

><p>Commander Ulthwe Saim found himself in a medical facility for the second time in less than a day. This time, instead of the modular walls of a field hospital, he sat in the sterile, overwhelmingly chrome medbay of the <em>Justice Eternal<em>. The cruiser was one of several in the turian fleet that orbited Shanxi, and served as the command vessel for the offworld portion of the occupying force. The middle-weight vessels served as the muscle of the fleet, while corvettes filled out their numbers. The operation was not deemed important enough to warrant a dreadnought, nor would such a vessel be terribly appropriate: they were designed for fleet engagements, and by and large, the Hierarchy fleet had steamrolled their human counterparts.

In the medbay, sitting opposite Saim was a turian wearing plain but nonetheless formal clothes. His brown carapace lacked any particular luster, and his face had none of the usual clan or planetary markings that were commonplace in the Hierarchy. No badge or indicator of rank was visible anywhere on his clothes, either. His presence aboard the _Justice Eternal_ without either (or escorting guards) was testament enough to his high status, and being devoid of any military markings meant he was from a powerful group indeed.

For a few, long seconds, he and Saim said nothing to one another. The air almost crackled audibly between their mutual stares, and the unknown turian chose to break the silence with a phrase that, though initially out of context, told Saim that this man had the answers he was looking for.

"It's a virus."

"What is?"

"You know what I'm talking about," the turian replied, his voice strange in how unremarkable Saim found it, "Your subordinate already told you everything he knew, and he only knew what we told him."

"So I've just got a virus?" Saim snorted, "Sounds too simple. I'm betting this is when you say bu-"

"But," the turian did not disappoint, giving a smile that reflected neither mirth nor annoyance, "It's no mere pathogen. I'd not be here if it was, in two capacities: I'd not be in the same room, dressed as I am, with a man bearing an alien virus, and similarly, I'd not be here for something so mundane as that."

"Then what is it?" Saim folded his arms, "Because I'd like to know now rather than later if it's the sort of thing I'll be killed and dissected over."

"Hardly," the turian laughed, then shifting back into business tones with alarming abruptness, "You're a smart man. Dangerous, too. Not keeping you informed would be a poor decision, and trying to kill you would be an even worse choice." He raised his arm, omni-tool lighting up, and input several commands. One of the projectors in the room came to life, and the turian gestured towards it.

"Take a look. _This_ is why you're lucky, and why we think we can work with you," he said, enhancing the quality of the hazy image until it came into focus, "Your comrade was not so fortunate, in either regard."

Saim already knew not to physically react if he didn't plan to reflect it in his words, but he couldn't help his eyes from widening at the projection. It was Karra, or at least it bore a resemblance to her. She was motionless, and most of her armor cut away. Saim knew it had been 'cut' because some of the armor _did_ remain, across her right flank and chest. Her carapace had grown up around it, blurring the line between her body and her gear.

Worse, as the image quality grew further, and zoomed closer, Saim saw tendrils of gunmetal tracing up and down her side, reaching as far as her neck and thigh. The commander let out an involuntary shudder. Was this what he had contracted? And if so, how long did he have?

"Trooper Karra's state is a result of two factors, as far as we can tell," the nameless turian said, unphased by the image but taking no pleasure in Saim's discomfort, "Most obvious was her injuries. She suffered severe lacerations…" he paused, shrugging, "…well, beneath those armor sections. There used to be breaches in the armor, but they've since regenerated."

"Repaired," Saim corrected automatically.

"No. Regenerated," the turian replied, "I'll get to that later. But the other factor was something she lacked that you had." He twisted a hand over his omni-tool, sweeping the image of Karra aside and revealing a new one. Saim instinctively tensed at the sight of it.

It was the powered armor he'd seen at the field hospital. Part of the helmet was missing and there was a hole in the torso plating, but it was unmistakable. The sleek yet looming design, the (now unloaded) rocket racks on the shoulders…the only thing missing was the weapon. The image spun in mid-air, various statistics appearing around it and highlighting certain parts.

"A familiar face, I see," the turian noticed Saim's reaction seemingly without looking, "As I understand it, you barely made it offworld thanks to a handful of them. They had various infantry and light vehicle support, of course, but they were the ones to make the most impact."

Saim dimly felt himself slip back into the chaotic sprint to the dropship. One of _them_ had crashed from the sky, knocking both him and Axe aside as if they were an afterthought. When it turned its weapon towards them, Saim had remembered the effect it had on the two turians in the field hospital corridor: eyes burst, ears leaking blood, undoubtedly organs turned to slurry.

But a stray shot had saved their lives. It was most likely intended to target one of the human vehicles, but Saim was thankful it had missed. It had ripped the armored human in half just as the trigger was squeezed, spraying that terrible sonic blast over their heads. It had only clipped them, but it took its toll nonetheless: Axe lost an eye, and passed out as soon as they reached the relatively safety of the dropship.

Saim had come out of in intact, as far as he could tell, but when the edge of the blast grazed him, it felt as if every fiber of his being was screaming, then falling deathly silent. It was a chilling sensation, and even though Saim was sure he was fully operational, it felt as if a part of him was dead, yet somehow still functioned properly.

"We were able to recover one of the armor suits, but not one of the weapons," the turian continued to speak, bringing Saim back to the present, "A shame, but we think one exposure was enough."

"Enough for what?" Saim asked, trying without success to put together the pieces that had been laid out.

"It has quite a few signs of being Prothean technology, but additional signs of…tampering," the turian said carefully, "The virus, that is. Not the suit. That's almost entirely human-made, with the same mass effect upgrades in virtually all their tech."

"It's a Prothean bioweapon? That doesn't seem-"

"-right?" the turian finished, shaking his head, "No, it doesn't. And it isn't. We've never seen anything like it before now, but it's no mere plague. As near as we can tell, it's some sort of techno-organic virus, effectively nanites that self-replicate and destroy redundant cells in their host."

"What you saw with Trooper Karra was the early portion of an advanced stage, if that makes sense," he continued, "The virus reacts visibly with material it comes into contact with, provided it's deemed useful. Trooper Karra had no weapons with her, but by the time we began taking off her armor for treatment, her body had already begun…merging with it."

"_Vashedan_," Saim cursed under his breath. Out of one life-or-death situation, and right into another, and this was one that he couldn't simply fight against.

"Relax, commander," the turian said, his unnerving voice sounding that much more unnerving when it tried to sound reassuring, "You're in no danger. Quite the opposite, actually. We can't say with absolute certainty yet, but it seems whatever tampering was done to the original virus left it vulnerable. The 'exposure' I mentioned was the sonic blast that clipped you. Though it didn't connect fully and cause noticable damage to _you_, it effectively 'killed' the nanites inside you."

"Then where does that leave me?" Saim demanded, temper rising, "Every question I've asked so far only got me _more_ questions that need answering. I want to know, straight-out, where I stand in all this."

"Alright," the turian shrugged, "In layman's terms, the virus works in stages. One of the a earliest stages allows its host to operate weapons and equipment with far more efficiency than normally possible. Making it an extension of yourself, you might say, via an organic interface unnoticeable to the host. You were in that phase when the virus was effectively 'killed,' but it was built to last. It can't reproduce any further, so you're in no danger of ending up like Trooper Karra, but the state it leaves you in makes you very valuable to an upcoming boom in research and development."

"While we're being totally honest with each other, this war will have far greater repercussions than just another colony under the Hierarchy banner," the turian continued, "As young as they are, humans have quite a bit of useful technology to offer, and we've already acquired a nice cache of it. You're going to be offered a chance to help build and, soon enough, operate the weapons that will fight and win wars for decades to come. And your training, coupled with those nanites, mean that you'll be better suited for it than anyone else."

"What about my squad?" Saim asked after a moment, "What will become of them?"

"Trooper Telgore will come along with you, I imagine. He's in surgery at the moment, getting his eye replaced. He's quite eager to get back on the battlefield," the turian replied, "Trooper Karra will remain in stasis and under observation until we can halt and reverse her infection."

"So that's it?"

"What is?"

"All I have to do is say 'yes' to you, and everything will work out in our favor?" Saim asked, an edge to his voice, "It's that simple?"

"No," the turian answered, deactivating his omni-tool, "You'll meet someone else. Maybe it'll be in a few hours, maybe a few days. I suspect that he'll be a good deal more 'official' looking than I am. All you have to do is say 'yes' to his offer, and then yes, it's just as simple as you say."

"I don't understand," Saim said, suddenly feeling lost, "What about the offer _you_ just made me?"

"I didn't make any offer. I said you're _going_ to be given an offer," the turian replied simply, "And when it's made, I'm confident that it will be more or less exactly what I've told you. Differently worded, of course, but we can't predict everything."

"That's something else," Saim's mind churned, "You keep saying 'we,' but I must have missed who that referred to."

"You didn't miss anything," the turian said with another of his replicated smiles, "In fact, you missed nothing at all, because I'm from no organization, and am, myself, nobody." Things clicked into place, and Saim sighed.

"Let me guess: this talk never happened either?"

"You're smart, commander. I suspect you'll climb quite a bit higher than 'commander,' too, provided you don't get yourself sectioned with stories of a conversation that was not recorded with a man who eludes description on a ship where he could not possibly have been," the turian stepped back, and the door slid open for him.

"I suggest you take the offer when it comes," he said, still smiling, "I wasn't lying: you'll get far if you play your cards right. And the men at the top discovered long ago that there are some things in this universe that nobody could possibly do, but still need to get done."

"So they made a few 'nobodies' to do them?" Saim smiled wryly.

"Sharp as a tack," he laughed, backing out through the opened door, "You'll be right at home at the top."

The door slid shut. Saim glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. He didn't even bother to check if it was offline. But then again, 'offline' was just another kind of alert that told observers that something was happening they weren't intended to see. Saim guessed that it was being fed a loop, or some other form of false footage.

For a few minutes, he thought about the nameless turian, and what had defined him. Perhaps it was easiest to say that his lack of definition defined him. He had no clan markings, a carapace colored an unspectacular shade of brown, and a voice that Saim wouldn't have been surprised to know had been surgically altered to make it match his appearance: ordinary. He was an afterthought, just a man in the background, always forced to the back of the mind simply because the mind refused to classify him as noteworthy. He was, in essence-

Saim grinned, shaking his head.

Nobody. He was, in essence, nobody.

* * *

><p>General Artanis had a near infinite capacity for frustration, but for the first time in the conflict, he was genuinely enraged. He had been making slow but sure progress towards the defeat of the human forces, and even gained the aid of an asari commando team to put into the effort. Two more human bastions fell in their capitol alone, and precious few remained.<p>

"Then tell me _why_ they haven't been dealt with!" he barked at one of the two holographic figures on the table before him. His target, a turian soldier wearing a senior officer's markings, winced slightly before replying. The general's anger was a cowing sight, even through indirect communication.

"_Most of our forces are stuck in the latest push. We can break the human strongholds, but if we pull too many troops away, it could turn into a counter-offensive,_" the officer answered, already dreading the reply-to-be. Thankfully for him, Artanis turned his attention to the other figure.

"And you! Your entire presence is intended to _prevent_ my men from becoming so entangled like this. What's stopping you from doing that?" he demanded.

"_We've lost five of our number while doing just that, general. It is unreasonable to expect us to work at full capacity at barely more than half strength._" Aleena Corpatis replied coldly, unphased by the general's anger.

"Then what use are you?" Artanis spat. The questioned proved rhetorical as he punctuated the sentence by closing the line between him and the asari commando. Her hologram vanished, and he looked back at the turian officer.

"Relay the coordinates of the government center to me," he snapped. The officer complied, and Artanis scanned them a moment to ensure that they were in order before continuing.

"Pull your soldiers back from that position, minimum of one block. Understand?" The officer opened his mouth as if to protest, but quickly thought better of it.

"_Yessir!_"

His hologram, too, vanished, leaving Artanis alone in the room. Away from prying eyes, he calmed to an extent. It would be a huge step, one that could either make or break this conflict. The human fleets were all but annihilated, but their ground forces were making the turian troops pay in blood for each building taken.

Not only that, but for several days, an entirely unforeseen offensive had been launched against their supply lines. Fast-moving human troops, unlike the ponderous tanks and heavy soldiers the turians had grown used to, were hammering at the vital supply stations outside the city. And, as the recently-vanished officer had stated correctly, the turian forces were effectively locked in a fresh push against the human defenses.

Thousands of turians had died already. In this push alone, it would not have shocked him if hundreds more were to join them. The humans had practically every advantage a defender could hope for, but all Artanis could do to keep them from regrouping and refortifying was keep them on the defensive.

No more. No more putting alien lives at higher value than those of his own species. No more blood staining his hands when he could end this war with a single blow that would not cost him so much as a single trooper.

The humans had hidden inside their population centers as a shield, but General Torq Artanis would make them regret that decision.

* * *

><p>"Orders are incoming, fleet master."<p>

Fleet Master Entra Shadoon was already listening to the general's transmission. It had been rerouted directly to the fleet master's earpiece; the transmission had close to the highest tier of clearance, after all.

For the rest of the bridge crew, the stoic fleet master sat in silence, listening to the orders buzzing in his ear. The grave expression that forever masked his face somehow managed to deepen, and he nodded.

"It will be done."

He closed the line, extending his hands over his command console like a concert pianist. His fingers drummed out a rapid series of commands as he spoke them aloud, ensuring that if they did not reach their recipients one way, they would reach them another.

"Generators: reroute power to port batteries and targeting matrices."

"_Yes, fleet master._"

"Port batteries: prepare to receive firing coordinates. Standby."

"_Coordinates received, fleet master._"

"Ensure that they are followed to the tenth decimal. The surrounding area has enemy noncombatants and friendly forces. Stray fire will not be tolerated." It was no idle threat, and the quick response from the gunners ensured that the fleet master knew that they were aware of that.

"_Port batteries ready, fleet master_," came the next confirmation.

"Standby. Forming firing solution," the fleet master's fingers continued to fly across the hard-light interface. If there was something worth doing, it was worth doing right, and if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself. The fleet master took both these lessons to heart as he programmed the firing solution personally. The ship's natural drift had to be accounted for, as well as weather conditions, planetary rotations, and all manner of other factors that could affect shot trajectory. It was not a single blast, after all; it was a sequence, and each had to hit within a hair's breadth of the first.

"Transfer fire control to my console," Entra ordered. The gunners complied. Another bit of philosophy the fleet master lived by: the chain of command was meant to be heaviest at the top. He knew this would not be the first volley, not by a long shot. Artanis would not order a warning shot, nor would the Hierarchy as a whole. 'Shows of force' were for bullies, not warriors.

In his younger years, Entra would have thought the firing command would have been some sort of big red button, or something else befitting of the action's gravity. But those were his younger days. He had long since acknowledged that war was not a dramatic affair. It was a duty like any other.

And with a single, final keystroke, he carried out that duty.

* * *

><p>The latest push was the worst yet. If Captain Dmitri Volkov had to guess, it appeared that the turians were sending an entire planet's worth of soldiers at them. He chuckled humorlessly to himself. A planet versus the population of the city hall garrison? He'd take those odds.<p>

By request of various junior officers, he'd stopped manning the walls alongside the rank-and-file troops. He'd only taken the request into consideration after a sniper's bullet had broken his helmet in half, miraculously only grazing his skull. It wasn't so much out of fear for his own life so much as fear of what would happen if he were to die. He was easily the highest-ranking officer present, and not every junior officer was as miraculously capable as Acting Captain Phillip Dante.

Though the tank was out of sight, Volkov could hear the twin cannons of the _Vindicator_ thunder in steady sequence. The Mammoth tank had so many kill marks on its interior that it practically repainted the walls. If this went on, the crew joked that they'd need to move onto the exterior hull.

_If this goes on, they might be right_, he thought. Even from his position well behind the firing line, Volkov saw a turian tank go up in blue and orange flames. Another kill mark for the _Vindicator_.

"Auto turrets six through nine are down," one of the junior officers called from his improvised radio-computer rig, "Jesus, six fired 'til it melted its barrel."

"Redirect a mortar team to the field of fire they left open," Volkov ordered, "Don't fire until I give the order." The officer followed the command, but Volkov was already lost in thought.

* * *

><p>In Volkov's mind, he was racing from his body onto the front lawn, past the GDI firing line, past the first street, and into the boots of a turian trooper. It was pure speculation, of course: Volkov could no more project his consciousness than he could turn lead into gold, but he knew that despite their alien nature, these xeno were soldiers, and he could think like soldiers.<p>

In Volkov's mind, the turrets had gone down ten seconds ago. The soldier waited ten more seconds, keeping his gun trained on the position they had occupied. No human infantry moved to reinforce. Another five seconds, and he raised a hand, ordering a scout forward. The scout moved swiftly between rubble, parked cars, and other improvised cover, gazing through the scope of his sniper rifle.

In Volkov's mind, he knew that the search would turn up nothing and no one. There were no soldiers there, save for the automatons that were now destroyed or otherwise disabled. It was, for all intents, clear.

In Volkov's mind, the scout gave a signal of 'all clear.' Three turians moved forward, rifles still held at the ready in case there were enemies lying in wait for a target more enticing than a single scout. They ducked behind new cover, waiting for any incurred fire. None came.

In Volkov's mind, the turian squad leader ordered the soldiers forward, double time. They had some open ground to cross, but the turrets were down, and thus there was a gap in the human's kill zone.

* * *

><p>Volkov opened his eyes. He didn't claim to know for sure what the turians in that location were doing, but his guess was better than most.<p>

"Open fire," he ordered, voice reaching the mortar team directly. Immediately, the triple _thump-whoosh_ of the three weapons going off came through his headset, and an instant later, the street was awash with flames, shrapnel, and death.

"Send a squad to reinforce that position," Volkov said after the second volley, "And let me know if we caught any birds with that blindfire."

"Yessir, mo-gah!" the technician abruptly whipped his headset off. Volkov did the same a heartbeat before a shrill, static shriek came through the microspeakers and subsided as quickly as it had come. The radio rig exploded with activity.

"_Jesus, my ears!_"

"_Fucking hell! What was that?_"

"_-still ringing. Shit!_"

"Focus, people!" Volkov barked, re-attaching his headset, "We've been fighting birds nonstop, and you're gonna let a little feedback get to you?"

"_**Sir, no, sir!**_" a collection of voices chorused, some still wincing from the noise, and the moment passed, leaving Volkov annoyed, but no worse for wear.

"Captain, front gate reports that the enemy…rear gate, too," despite his still-ringing ears, the junior officer's face split into an unbelieving grin, "All sides, sir! Same thing!"

"Same thing _what_, soldier?"

"They're falling back! It's a full retreat!"

Volkov stood silent a moment, then laughed. It was a small chuckle that built into a full-bellied guffaw, and he could dimly hear the jubilant shouts and relieved sighs of other soldiers through his headset.

"Alright, people, damn fine work, but no time to party," Volkov couldn't fight back a grin himself, but dispensed the necessary orders nonetheless, "I need damage and casualty reports ASAP. The birds are giving us a breather, and we're gonna make sure we're ready when they come back."

"Lieutenant, raise Captain Dante," Volkov gestured to the junior officer, "Let's see if I can't get an APC over with some of those supplies he's been hurting' for."

"Yessir," the officer nodded, still smiling, "There's a bit of atmospheric distortion, though. It could take a few minutes to reach h-"

* * *

><p>The first impact was felt throughout the city, sending ripples through still water and rattling windows. The half-dozen that followed amplified the effect to the point that it felt as if the ground below the city was rebelling against the concrete laid over it. By the third impact, the job was done, but the remainder ensured that there could be no doubts.<p>

The _Vindicator_ was far enough from the first impact that only its shields broke. The second impact, however, landed close enough to the tank that the Mammoth was effectively disassembled and scattered across a three-block radius.

The mayor of Talruum, hearing news of the turian retreat over the general frequency, was on his way through the halls of city hall to congratulate Captain Volkov. Under the first impact, the roof above him vanished, and he would have appeared to observers to crumble to ash mid-stride. His bodyguards were unaware that anything was happening to their principal as they, too, were consumed.

Had the strike been composed of lesser ordinance, the mortar team would have perished when the impacts set off their spare munition. However, it was not the case. Caught on the roof of city hall, the mortar team vanished along with their weapons, the latter reduced to atoms before they even had the chance to detonate.

Soldiers around the defensive perimeter had only just begun to realize that the attackers were falling back. Cheers were called across the firing line, and the weary soldiers felt the relief that an end to seven days of non-stop combat brought. In a twisted sort of mercy, when the impacts erased them, they did so before they could realize how short-lived their victory was.

Dmitri Volkov, callsign 'Executive,' captain of the 82nd Marines, and senior officer in the defense of Talruum, simply vanished. With a smile of blessed ignorance to the apocalypse raining down on him, Volkov vanished from Talruum and from the constraints of mortality.

* * *

><p>The fire and thunder woke the leader, reminding him of a world outside his lair. The world collapsed around him, killing various thralls, but entombing the rest along with the leader. And as he remembered the outside world, his hatred flared, like an ember being stoked back to a blaze.<p>

Slowly but deliberately, the leader ripped his way through his rubble prison, crushing concrete and granite into powder in his grip. The stronger thralls followed him as surely as the rising sun, digging themselves up, up towards the fire, up towards the thunder. Above them, the pounding like wardrums of gods ceased, replaced eventually by the faint, constant vibration of mortals scurrying about.

The leader remembered mortals, in two forms. The first, he hated for his former kinship with them, and thus for the imperfection that he had needed the cold presence to correct.

The second, though, were the monsters, the monsters that had driven him and his thralls into the sewers. Not content with that, they pursued him even then, diving into his lair and forcing him into chemical-induced madness.

The leader's mind twitched, half-remembering…something. What he had been, perhaps? Before the cold presence, before the madness…before the monsters, even? The twitch suddenly became painful, as if even the almost-memory was agony to even contemplate.

Instead of remembering further, the leader howled, redoubling his war against the rock and rubble. His cry was echoed by his thralls, but their voices were pale shadows of the leader's own. His howl spoke of hatred that burned brighter than any sun, forged in the darkness of the sewers and tempered in a cocktail of combat drugs.

* * *

><p><strong>January 10, 2158<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta system**

"_This is General James Williams, broadcasting on open channels to all GDI personnel. I've received word of the loss of Captain Dmitri Volkov and his garrison in the planetary capitol. For many of you, this will not come as news, but what I'm about to tell you likely will be._"

Acting Captain Dante sat next to the radio, one hand resting on top of the device's casing. Most of Frank Company's commanders already were in the field, still awaiting Dante's orders, but the signal reached them, too, and they knew full well what the transmission would be. It was a long time coming, and the hours after Volkov's death had felt like days as they waited.

"_I'm issuing an order for all planetside GDI soldiers, formal and otherwise, currently in conflict with the so-called 'Turian Hierarchy' to stand down. All units still in combat after twenty-four hours will be considered rogue._"

Throughout Frank Company's garage, and indeed across Talruum and Shanxi, in whatever strongholds still held by GDI forces, the order was met with a crushing silence. It was the sort of silence that could drive men mad and made them crave something, anything, to break it. But the radio continued, and the soldiers listened further. A voice came through Dante's headset, though it was not that of General Williams.

"_Targets are in sight, captain. Your orders?_" Gunnery Sergeant Rios asked. Dante hesitated. This was a new kind of uncertainty. He'd been dealing with the fog of war until now, coping with dwindling supplies and manpower, and it had felt as if any opportunity to escape would have been welcome. But now that it was presenting itself, he was genuinely unsure if that was what he wanted. Ending their fight was one thing, but ending it like _this_ was another altogether.

This operation would likely have been one of Frank Company's last, even without the general's announcement. But the men and women of the improvised company needed it. After what had happened to Volkov's garrison, they couldn't simply stop fighting. Not like this. Never like this.

Dante sighed. That was answer enough for him.

"Proceed, gunnery sergeant," he ordered. Then he turned the volume back up on the general frequency, and listened as the general's message continued.

* * *

><p>"<em>This decision did not come easily to me. The Initiative has been under siege before, and each time, we have triumphed. Our fathers held off the Brotherhood long enough to ensure our survival as a species, and their fathers before them repelled the Scrin.<em>"

Specialist Locke has paused his work, turning up one of the knobs on the computer console to increase the volume of the broadcast. His helmet rested a short distance away, the built-in camera serving as a silent witness to what was taking place.

"Hm. A pity," he said, "But no matter. We've plenty of time." Alongside his helmet, he'd laid out an array of tools, some improvised, others from his regular gear, ranging from zip-cuffs to coagulant injectors, and he had been making liberal use of all of them for the better part of the past few hours.

"Where did we leave off?" he asked rhetorically, turning back to McCarthy, "Your friend didn't give me much to work with, and I thought I'd pushed too hard and broken his mind. I suppose I underestimated him, if he was well enough to free himself and warn you. His wounds ought to finish him, but I'll confirm it after we finish."

With zip-strips binding her arms and legs to her chair, and the injuries she'd sustained, McCarthy was in no position to stop him. The commando was more thorough than any automated scanner the GDI had ever built, and infinitely more brutal. One of his first actions of the interrogation was to remove her ocular implant and, therefore, her left eye.

"I know that you've been testing something in the city," Locke leaned down, putting himself at eye level with the bound doctor, "And I've more than enough evidence to warrant an immediate execution. No one would blink if I were to end you right now and leave." As he spoke, his combat knife appeared in his hand, its edge already red with McCarthy's blood. She knew it was no idle threat, but also knew that a swift execution was probably the _best_ outcome she could hope for at this stage.

"Of course, all the information I want is probably on your computer, but that's likely out of the question with your kind. Your kind usually have all kinds of safeguards against unauthorized entry. So instead, I'll simply ask my questions politely, and if you don't choose to reply, I'll cut something off. You've still got eight-" His hand moved in a blur, and McCarthy gasped as the blade cut her, so sharp that she barely felt it.

"I stand corrected. Seven fingers," Locke smiled, but it was the smile one would expect from a monster who had only heard of the concept of smiling from one of his victims, "And after that, I'll get creative. And by the end, all you'll have left are the answers I want, and a voice with which to tell me them."

McCarthy mumbled something, muffled by her unwilling tongue, pain, and exhaustion. Locke used the flat of his knife to tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at his grotesque, half-scarred face.

"You'll have to speak up."

"Sewers…in the sewers…" she breathed, struggling to keep her throat from moving into the blade's edge.

"What's in the sewers?"

"The first...first of His new Marked."

The questioning went no further, because no sooner had McCarthy choked out the last word, a shaped charge reduced a nearby wall to dust and debris. Locke was hurled across the room by the blast, but McCarthy was almost miraculously untouched by it. Instinct had tightened his fingers around his combat knife, ensuring that it was still in his left hand even as he struck the wall, and his free hand was drawing his GD-70 'Nighthawk' pistol from the holster on his right hip.

Twin silhouettes darted through the hole even before Locke had struck the wall. That description was remarkably accurate: they seemed quite literally to be nothing but empty outlines, only _just_ visible because of their movement, and even then easily written off as a trick of the eye.

At first, they both raced toward McCarthy, who had barely the time or awareness to fully acknowledge the explosion. But only one stopped at the doctor's seat. The other continued, not breaking stride, in a straight line toward Locke, an instant before the Commando's boots had even hit the floor.

Even for a Commando of Locke's caliber, it was impossible to fully read the movements being placed in front of him. But his sight was sharp and his reactions quick enough to raise his knife in self-defense as his right hand was halfway to fully withdrawing his holstered pistol. The silhouette before him blurred with motion.

Locke was not used to being surprised. His knife had been stamped from an alloy that could have balanced a Mammoth on its tip provided the ground beneath it could hold. It had been issued to him as part of his initial kit upon completing his Commando training, and though all GDI gear was built tough, it was the only original component from that kit.

And yet, as the Commando's blade met the partially-seen blow, it was sheared in two, from eight inches to four, and the blow it was intended to block was not even slowed. Thus, Locke was at a loss for the second time in the occupation of Shanxi, and as the silhouette's blade continued its path towards the Commando's head, it would not be a stretch to say that this second time would also be the last of Locke's military career.

* * *

><p>"<em>Know this: our surrender is not a gesture of cowardice. I have no doubt that each man and woman under my command would have remained on the battlefield until their last breath. But we do not fight on a battlefield: we fight from apartments and offices, in cities across this planet. We fight in homes, with far too many of those who live there still inside.<em>"

In an apartment across the street, a little girl named Alice listened to the words of General James Williams. It reached beyond GDI military frequencies and onto civilian channels, and with good reason. It was a message for everyone, not just soldiers. Alice might not have fully understood what the significance of the words were, but children were exceptionally good at reading the tone of a person's voice, and Williams' tone was familiar.

On the bed, her mother was sleeping. She'd been sleeping for almost three days now. Alice knew Williams' tone because she had already heard it from her mother. She'd told Alice that everything would be alright, that her father would be back when the fighting was over. It was the tone of someone trying to be reassuring while wishing that they could believe their own kind words.

Alice didn't like to sleep. Her mother hadn't been able to sleep for some time, and only slept now because of all the pills she had taken. Alice could fall asleep easily, but her mind would not let her rest. She remembered the nice soldier, the one who had been in their old apartment a few weeks ago. It had been astonishing how quickly he had changed: one moment, he was at the window, firing his rifle at the bad men on the street, and in a flash and a bang, he was across the room, but only half of him. Only his top half made it across the room.

At first, Alice had cried, like any child would have. She cried until she had no more tears to shed, and then gave dry sobs, like a man vomiting with nothing left in his stomach. The sadness was still there, but her body couldn't keep up. And every time she slept, she still saw the nice soldier, but only his top half.

He had looked so sad before Alice and her mother fled the apartment, and Alice still saw that look when she dreamed of him. After a time of tearless crying, her sadness depleted itself, too. Colors faded, and the world seemed a lot less difficult a place to cope with. It made things…easier.

Her mother hadn't liked this. Alice didn't understand that, either. When Alice finally felt no further need to be comforted, her mother only became more desperate. It peaked three days ago when she told her how much she loved her, told Alice to take some of the pills, and then for her to fall asleep, too. After her mother had gone to sleep, Alice simply left the pills in the bottle. After all, she didn't much like to sleep.

There was a noise from outside, the familiar sound of a muffled explosion. Alice did not care to investigate it. Instead, she sat down in front of the vidscreen, and listened to General James Williams.

"_For their sake, we cannot continue this fight. The invaders have made it clear that they have no more reservations regarding their orbital weapons. Each of us volunteered for war, but we have no right to force into it those who did not._"

* * *

><p>"<em>Forgive me for speaking so long, but I'll repeat the order one more time: all GDI forces are to cease hostilities against the invading forces within twenty-four hours of this announcement. Any who do not comply will be considered rogue units and treated accordingly.<em>"

General Artanis let his omnitool translate the human's speech in real-time, and thus heard it as millions of others did. His gamble had worked: by crushing the single greatest fortress in their possession with so little effort, he'd broken the humans' will to fight.

Of course, it _had_ been a gamble. The humans had a disproportionately large number of soldiers for their population size, and thus left Artanis to conclude that they were a heavily militarized culture. Unfortunately for them, they'd put most of that culture into ground warfare, and not into space. As much as they had struggled against the human infantry and tanks, their fleets had been destroyed almost as an afterthought. The only noteworthy damage had been inflicted by their orbital defense cannons, but those had long-since been reduced to scrap.

But the gamble itself had been, in large part, due to the similarities Artanis saw between his actions and (though he loathed to admit it) the actions of the krogan during the Krogan Rebellions. The krogan had destroyed entire turian colonies by redirecting asteroids to them, causing deaths of untold millions by those means alone. But this gesture, meant to cow the turians into surrender, had only strengthened their will to defeat the krogans.

Artanis took little pride in the orbital strike. It had been necessary, and it had worked, and in those, he was satisfied. But to cause the deaths of hundreds with a single order, carried out in mere moments? There was no pride to be had there. And it was this point that Artanis believed firmly placed the Hierarchy apart from the krogans. While they took a malevolent glee in war, the Hierarchy waged war because it was necessary. War was never for its own sake.

_And the moment that we start to believe otherwise_, Artanis thought, _Is the moment we are no better than the krogan were._

He turned his attention back to the broadcast. _  
><em>

"_I'm sorry. But I will not let this world be set ablaze for a cause we cannot win. Not yet. The Second is coming, and the Initiative will see that your sacrifices were not in vain._"

Artanis gave a faint snort. The political equivalent of whispering sweet nothings. Or perhaps the human general genuinely believed that help was on the way, and were blissfully unaware that the turians had all but annihilated what fleets they had outside the planet's orbit before they had even arrived.

Still…Artanis saw no harm in the message. A race that believed help was on the way was a race willing to wait for that help. They wouldn't try to rebel, or even rebuild their military, simply because they thought their rescuers were already on their way. Hostage takers followed a similar mentality: telling the hostages that the money was on the way (regardless of whether it was true) ensured compliant hostages.

Artanis' mood darkened somewhat. Was that what they were doing? Taking an entire race, having only just discovered mass effect technology and climbed into the stars, and subjugating them? It was one thing to assimilate rebellious planets and factions _within_ the Hierarchy, but it was quite another to discover a new race and plant the Hierarchy banner on their homeworld.

The general brushed the thoughts aside. That sort of thing was for politicians or the Council to decide. He was a soldier. He'd been given a war, and if this broadcast was any indicator, he'd just won it.

"_Good night, and may God watch over you all._"

* * *

><p>"The captain gave the go-ahead," Gunnery Sergeant Rios tightened his grip on his Werewolf, "All units, sound off."<p>

From his elevated position, he could see the site that had once been city hall. It was a humbling sight: such a mighty fortification reduced to nothing, and with enemy losses for it. But Rios was about to see the latter changed. Frank Company's numbers were bolstered, and in the nick of time. The turians were moving on the demolished sight to confirm its destruction, as well as to claim it as a morale-booster. Dante had anticipated this move, and he decided that they would not allow it.

Of course, that had been before the announcement, but Dante's decision to continue only strengthened his soldiers' resolve.

* * *

><p>"Running cold, but we're good to go," Sergeant Findlay replied. His helmet comm was practically the only thing in his powered armor that was still online. The same went for the fifteen Zone troopers left in Frank Company, clustered behind him in crouched concealment. Zone armor put off a rather powerful heat signature, and Dante had made it clear that this was to be a perfect ambush, or it would be a perfect slaughter against Frank Company.<p>

* * *

><p>"Same goes for us," Specialist Reese added, practically in pitch-darkness inside the shell of his Wolverine. Frank Company's other remaining Wolverine was piloted by Eliza Schultz, who was in a similar state. The only light came from the dull, throbbing blink of the activation switches. Normally, Wolverines were brought online before their shell even closed on the pilot, but these were not normal circumstances.<p>

* * *

><p>"Checked up and good to go," Staff Sergeant Maria Pelayo said, double-checking that her soldiers were ready as well. She was the newest and likely final addition to Frank Company's numbers, but she couldn't have come at a better time, and her assistance was invaluable. All the troopers under her command were hit-and-run veterans by this point, and their composition was honed to serve this exact purpose. They were as eager as Frank Company to strike a final blow against the occupiers before their twenty four hour window closed.<p>

Their raids had been successful beyond measure, but they couldn't sustain them for much longer. Sooner or later, the turians would catch up with them, and they wouldn't be able to stand and fight without making it a final stand. This way was better: one more raid, reinforced by the guerillas of Frank Company.

* * *

><p>"Good," Rios replied, "Wait for my signal." Under his direct command was Frank Company's Marine strength, subdivided by squad and spread out, but totaling close to fifty men. Only a skeleton crew had been left behind in the garage base of operations. Dante was going all-in.<p>

They hid in the rubble, in surrounding buildings, anywhere they could. What could not naturally hide was buried under a thin layer of broken concrete, netting, and junked cars. They hid well, for that had been what they had spent too much of this fight doing: hiding in their holes, waiting for the turians to try and dig them out. But the turian column was approaching, and the GDI planned to do their work for them.

* * *

><p>Among the turian column was the newly promoted Sub-Commander Moraxus Telgore. He had what looked to be one lens taken from a pair of sunglasses stuck over his left eye, but it was merely the quick-replacement job that the surgeons had done to give him sight in both eyes. When all this was done, he could get a more subtle prosthetic, but this served its purpose well enough, and it let him take part in the final operation of the turian police action.<p>

It was slowly coming into view. It had once been a fortress that had held off hundreds, if not thousands of infantry and dozens of vehicles, but now, it was nothing. Its destruction was the deathblow to the human resistance, and Axe was thankful for it. The sewers beneath that fortification had cost him nearly half his squadmates, and left only him, Commander Saim, and Karra alive. He suppressed a shiver at the thought of Karra. She was in stasis, certainly, but she was in bad shape. He counted himself lucky to have escaped the clash beneath the streets with his life, but considered himself blessed to have avoided her fate: alive, but unable to live.

The turian column was composed of two reinforced companies with vehicle and air support, many of its troopers having been among those who had laid siege to the government center. This was a definitive victory for troop morale, if one had been truly needed. Not only was the bastion leveled, but its ground was being seized in the name of the Hierarchy. It would silence whatever human soldiers or militia who had any thoughts of continuing the fight during or beyond the twenty-four hours their general had set for a full surrender.

It was in full view now. The power of an orbital strike was unquestionable; nothing remained but rubble where once had stood a mighty fortress.

"Sub-commander, are you well?" Axe blinked with his remaining eye, turning to his subordinate who had asked.

"Fine. Just a few things on my mind," he brushed the concern off, "Plenty of time to think now, eh? Finally getting off this backwater."

"Of course, sub-commander," the trooper nodded, shoulders visibly relaxing as the calm, talkative Axe returned, "A few days of disarming, and we'll be-"

There was shouting from further down the column, shouting that didn't come over the radio. They were practically on top of the strike zone now. Axe imagined that a few rookie soldiers had stumbled across a carbonized skeleton or something. He amended that thought almost as soon as it came: there were hardly any rookie soldiers in the column. Nearly all had seen their fair share of action, and even those who were in support roles had likely been ravaged by the lightning-fast strikes of a human raiding party that had been targeting supply hubs.

"_Commander Kusovai to all units. Approach with caution. Forward sensors indicate thermal abnormalities. Keep sharp_."

As if the universe wanted to reinforce the commander's statement, further down the column, a trooper carrier exploded in a tower of blue and orange flame.

And then, all hell broke loose.

* * *

><p>Reese and Schultz had timed their startup sequences in perfect synch with the first attack. Their Wolverines were finishing coming online just as a Marine's MOD-3 anti-tank launcher devoured a medium tank. They rose to their full height, just over twelve feet, and made themselves known. They crashed through storefronts, having broken inside through adjoining alleyways to conceal their point of entry. The effect was tremendous: two hulking war machines bursting from buildings they could not have possibly gotten inside.<p>

Across Reese's front, repainted periodically over the course of countless repairs and refits, was stenciled a message in jagged capitals: 'This machine kills birds.' And below it, a combination of the late William Thatch's art prowess and the translation software imparted by Dr. McCarthy had added the same message a second time, but in the turian tongue.

And as Reese and Schultz lumbered into battle, bearing the green-skull of Frank Company, their allies joined in.

* * *

><p>Rios tossed the spent MOD-3 back into the waiting arms of its Marine owner, unslinging his Werewolf and leaning from cover. Many of his Marines didn't have lines of fire yet, and were moving to try and gain them, but it didn't much matter. The Wolverines had just joined the fray, and Rios and his Marines opened fire.<p>

The gunnery sergeant's eyes had become sunken over the past two weeks. He remained just as silently imposing as he had ever been, but he had the air of a man who was simply going through the motions as he had in life. There had been no fire, no zeal. But now, his eyes were alight, and through them, he could see nothing but targets on the street below. Ironically, it was General Williams' message that revived him. It took only the order to lay down arms to remember a Greek phrase from an otherwise long-forgotten history class: _Molon Iabe_.

Rios didn't intend to force his men to keep fighting after the twenty-four hours had elapsed. He would have failed as a commander to impress such an order. But he wouldn't stop. If they wanted him to lay down his weapon...

_Molon Iabe_. Come and take it.

* * *

><p>Despite their inferior numbers, volumes of heavier shots streaked from the Zone troopers, Findlay the first among them. Sheets of armor-piercing automatic fire, the <em>crack<em> of railgun slugs, and distinctive glow of ion beams. They had taken a massive risk in placing themselves so close to the turians, but it ensured that every round fired hit something, and similarly took away the turians' ability to call down orbital support without immolating their own men.

Both up and down the column, Findlay saw similar chaos being wrought. Rios and his Marines, Reese and Schultz in their mechs, but the newest additions to Frank Company...they were a sight, and Findlay redoubled his efforts, eager not to be outmatched by his distaff counterparts.

* * *

><p>"Close quarters! Keep 'em at arm's length!" Staff Sergeant Pelayo shouted, igniting her jumpjets as soon as her suit finished its activation sequence. A dozen similarly-suited troopers followed her, and their weapons devastated the turian troops before the power armored soldiers even landed.<p>

Pelayo and her comrades had no way of knowing, but among the turians, their reputation was the rough equivalent of the asari commandos' reputation among humans. They were dubbed the _Morkant_, in the turian tongue, translating simply to 'Death song.' And as veterans of the ZOCOM 23rd's Zone Raider detachment, they were well deserving of the nickname.

Their sonic blasters howled, killing any turians caught under the blast radius and maiming those who were partially struck. Their landing among the disoriented turian troopers did not decrease their ruthless efficiency. Some continued to fire their sonic weapons, but others were close enough to make use of their augmented strength to break soldiers with their hands and rifle butts.

Even with the reduced armor from the basic Zone trooper design, the Raiders were able to shrug off the sparse incoming as if it were an afterthought. None had even lost their kinetic barriers yet. Air-to-air rockets streaked from the racks mounted on their shoulders, serving as improvised but effective dumb-fire rockets against light vehicles.

* * *

><p>"C'mon, c'mon!" PFC Sarah Walters pulled back a priming bolt, shooting a glance at her partner, "You done?"<p>

"Hang on..." PFC Daniel Swaim hissed back, focusing intently on the final task before him for a moment longer before giving a slap to the device's casing, "Alright, open up!"

From the fourth floor balcony of a remarkably-intact building (considering its proximity to ground zero), Walters and Swaim had a clear line of fire along most of the turian convoy. Of course, their weapon had a limited range of effectiveness, and they had to delay actually setting up the weapon completely beforehand to avoid giving away the GDI ambush prematurely. But anchoring clamps snapped shut on the balcony wall, and internal servos whined as Walters swiveled the weapon towards their targets and pulled both triggers.

The Werewolf weapon system was a brilliant innovation, but aside from the larger variants carried by Zone troopers, there were a few roles that they could not adequately fulfill for all their versatility. One of those roles was filled by the M5 HMG, which combined the ability to penetrate light vehicles with the awe-inspiring power to effectively dismember infantry. The M5 required two soldiers to be fully effective, as many of its predecessors had, but a high rate of fire and shots with the kinetic transfer of a .50 cased round made it a worthwhile expenditure. Among soldiers, it was generally referred to as the 'Grinder.' Few other nicknames were fully appropriate given its effect on infantry.

The Grinder thundered, managing to join the GDI fusillade only a few seconds after the volley began. The kinetic barrier of an APC strained and cracked under the barrage, and the Grinder's wrath tore fist-sized holes in the roof of the vehicle. Walters sustained the stream a few seconds before turning it to a fresh target. She knew from experience how much fire it took to kill a vehicle of that size, and she'd added a few more shots for good measure.

A group of turian infantry became its new targets. The Wolverines had entered the fight, and the Grinder joined them in tearing footsoldiers apart. Often, it seemed that the high-caliber shots simply disintegrated an arm or leg, rather than simply tearing it off. It didn't much matter to Walters. Kills were kills, and she and Swaim both knew that their role could quickly become unnecessary when the ambush inevitably turned to chaos.

"Hold!" Swaim shouted, Walters cutting off the stream of fire just as he did, "New pack going in." One natural disadvantage of the Grinder was how quickly it could burn through ammunition cells, though in this case 'burning' was used literally. It was common practice to periodically pull them from the weapon and replace them, allowing the newly-removed cell to cool while the Grinder used the fresh one.

"Make it quick," Walters said, somewhat unnecessarily. She trusted Swaim's abilities already, but she also saw that her prediction was coming true more quickly than she thought, and a melee was no target for a heavy machinegun. Not only that, but combat was throwing up a heavy dust and debris cloud, making firing the weapon into the street all the more dangerous.

Many GDI soldiers broke from cover or jumped from the high ground, placing themselves on the same level as their turian targets. The turians had numbers and their soldiers were well-trained, but the ambush was devastating, and they could not bring their heavier weapons to bear against either variety of powered armor in the chaos. Within seconds, the ambush was becoming a brutal melee, as bayonets were drawn, stimpacks shot into veins, and every ounce of pent-up anger the humans felt against the invaders was unleashed.

* * *

><p>Axe ducked under a bayonet thrust, smashing an armored elbow against the human footsoldier's faceplate hard enough to crack it. As the man stumbled back, Axe brought his assault rifle to bear, spraying a prolonged burst that put the soldier down for good.<p>

As far as he could tell, the column was in the worst-case scenario for any ambush: badly bloodied in the initial volley, many of their superior capabilties neutralized, and now in danger of an outright rout in light of the enemy charge. But the Hierarchy military was not famed for its technology alone. Battlefield courage ensured that every soldier stood their ground, fighting back in the face of any odds.

And they still had advantages over the humans. Numbers, for one, and air support. Axe suspected that the turian gunships would be tearing through any ambushers who hadn't decided to plunge headlong into the turian ranks, and those who _had_ would eventually fall when the turians rallied.

Axe glanced skyward, and what he saw could not have been further from his hopeful ideal. Mangled and wreathed in flames, a friendly gunship streaked across the sky, vanishing as it passed beyond the line of sight permitted by the buildings. A second gunship was firing its mass accelerator cannons, but not at any ground targets as Axe had thought. As if the universe was trying its hardest to demoralize Axe, the gunship was suddenly struck by a pair of air-to-air missiles, showering the ground troops in debris.

One had been sighted nearly a month ago, but Axe couldn't tell if this was the same vehicle. A human gunship, borne aloft by two howling turbofans, continued to spew ordinance from its stubby 'wings,' cutting through the comparatively light turian counterparts effortlessly. It may as well have been a tank fighting against recon craft. Designated air combat crafts were the normal turian countermeasure, but they were grounded a fair distance away, and by the time they could get airborne, the damage would already have been done.

A shockwave from behind him nearly threw Axe off his feet, but ironically proved lifesaving. An ion beam sliced through the air where he'd stood a moment before. It was a mixed blessing, as his life had only been prolonged because the closest troop carrier had just gone up in flames, perforated by a heavy support gun somewhere above street level. A cloud of dust had risen, made all the worse by the copious supply of the stuff that urban combat inevitably generated, undoubtedly worsened by the human gunship's turbofans. Vision was becoming an issue, but Axe could still see well enough to fight, and his HUD automatically highlighted friendly soldiers and, when possible, enemies.

Axe cursed when a hulking red outline blinked into his field of vision, swinging a thick arm that caused a friendly green outline to wink out. Two more appeared, further away, but one of the power-armored humans was problem enough for Axe. He squeezed the trigger, pouring automatic fire against the red outline as it turned toward him. The orange glow of kinetic barriers lit up the dust cloud, and Axe wisely dove to one side as the human retaliated with a significantly greater amount of firepower.

Surprisingly, the armor afforded troops a surprising amount of speed, and the power-armored hulk closed the gap between himself and Axe with a few quick strides. Axe had barely recovered from his life-saving dodge when he had to deflect a crushing swing from his foe, dashing his rifle from his grip. Almost out of reflex, Axe's left hand clenched, bringing his omni-tool online and producing a short, curved blade of orange light at its head. Axe had no idea whether the new weapon would work, but knew that the consequences for it failing would be his own swift and painful demise.

He slashed upward, catching the human's own rifle. Remarkably, in a spray of sparks, the human stumbled back, sparing a glance at his boxy weapon through his faceless, reflective visor. A moment's glance was enough to confirm that the deep trench carved along the side was enough to render it useless as anything but a club. Axe was breathless, and silently vowed to thank the 'Nobody' who had given him the omni-tool upgrade.

* * *

><p>Sergeant Sean Findlay was thrown off by the unexpected move, but recovered swiftly. The alien's weapon had disabled his Werewolf, leaving him without his primary weapon. He smiled grimly behind his visor. The turian was good. It was almost poetic that chance would leave them fighting on these terms. His left hand drew his combat knife, following the trend of Zone gear in that it was essentially an enlarged variant of the standard Marine Ka-Bar. He flipped the blade into an inverted grip, and met the turian's previous motion by balling his right gauntlet into a fist. A spade-shaped blade shot from above the wrist, short by Zone trooper standards, but practically the size of an unarmored hand. The integrated punch-dagger was usually reserved for emergencies, but Findlay felt it strangely appropriate.<p>

As if in response, the turian's free hand drew a curved knife from his waist, matching Findlay blade-for-blade. They were smaller, to be certain, but the omni-tool's light blade had proven itself highly effective, and Findlay wasn't going to chance that his armor would offer total protection from it after the mess it had made of his Werewolf.

If Findlay had more of a flair for the dramatic, he would have raised his visor, both showing his opponent his face and offering an obvious weak point to level the odds further. But this was no scripted drama, and their drawing of blades had taken but a few instants. A brutal melee raged around them, and neither was willing to sacrifice an instant for posturing when there were comrades in arms in need of aid. And without so much as a gesture of acknowledgement, the two attacked, both aiming to kill with the first blow and return to battle.

And as they fought, the ground trembled, an almost mockingly minor indicator of what was to come.

* * *

><p>Light exploded into the leader's improvised tunnel. He had broken the surface, rubble streaming from his hulking form like water from the back of a surfacing Old One. He stood in the center of a scorched landscape, but outside, all around, was a civilization that he once knew, and his warped mind could recognize. And at the edge of it, a battle raged, between his hated kin and the equally hated monsters.<p>

The recognition stabbed into him like a white-hot knife, and the leader roared. The avatar of Obliteration thundered forward, towards the fray, and his thralls surfaced and joined him.

* * *

><p><strong>And that's chapter seven. R&amp;R, anon accepted. Couple of new-ish characters were brought in, but eight's more-or-less the last chapter, so that doesn't matter too much at this point. Special thanks go to Maka556 for his input, which helped me add a good deal to this chapter, and even special-er thanks to battybiologist for proofreading the chapter.<br>**


	8. Sound and Fury

**January 10, 2158**

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta system**

Through the haze of exhaustion, pain, and whatever drugs the Commando had pumped into her, McCarthy didn't fully comprehend the explosion until a figure was already standing before her, arms a blur of motion.

He had apparently stepped into reality from nowhere. One moment, he was there, when the previous, he hadn't. And yet, as far detached she had become from what was truly 'real' and what was not, this made acknowledging the figure's existence significantly easier.

He was speaking now. McCarthy assumed that the figure was a 'he,' but that was merely because her addled mind didn't even bother questioning whether 'he' was anything more than a hallucination. The words were in plain English, but…she didn't hear them, per se. It felt more like they were being poured directly onto her mind than actually passing through her ears.

…_the sake of the Marked, I take what He is owed from your mind._ His face was concealed behind a featureless faceplate, black as could be, but producing no reflection. McCarthy felt something pulled from behind her head, and the voice continued.

_Do you wish for the Messiah's peace?_ McCarthy forced her lips to move, barely willing forth a questioning gasp.

_Do you wish for the Messiah's peace?_ it asked again.

McCarthy was not in what could be called a stable state of mind, but she gave some indicator of confirmation. The agent nodded, already reciting one of the Marked's many litanies from behind his mask. The plates that composed his arms shifted, giving way to a rectangular blade almost the length of his forearm.

McCarthy breathed out one final time, and the blade moved in a blur, cutting her head from her neck in one swift stroke. No blood spilled forth, and the agent's other hand caught and cradled the head before it had the chance to fall.

The agent turned his head toward his companion and the slain Commando, but paused for a nanosecond. During that instant, he saw the world as it ought to have been, as he knew it _should_ be, but reality caught up and made itself dominant. There were several key differences between what should have been and what actually was, but the most important of them was the state of the GDI Commando.

He was still alive, avoiding what ought to have been a deathblow. And every second that he remained among the living, the two agents' chances of clean escape rapidly approached zero.

* * *

><p>Nothing could have stopped the blade's movement. It had cut his knife in two halfway up its length, and he sincerely doubted that his skull would somehow prove more resilient.<p>

And so, lacking any other immediate options, Locke rammed his head forward, toward a foe that seemed only a silhouette, and made the luckiest attack of his entire career as a Commando.

The blade whistled through the space where his head would have been. Even without his helmet, Locke's brow had as much force behind it as the Commando could give. It connected with his nigh-invisible opponent, cracking something that became rapidly visible under the impact.

The pain was immense, but Locke ignored it. He expected that he would have some skull showing on his forehead if he survived the encounter, but it was an easy price to pay. His opponent reeled backward, faceplate cracked and whatever tech that granted him his invisibility failing.

With only half a knife and his Nighthawk handgun, Locke fought back. The knife slashed in a vicious uppercut, sparking as the closest enemy raised his arms to block it. The Nighthawk drew a bead on the one across the room. Locke was unconsciously aware that the figure was holding his prisoner's severed head, but that information was not of immediate importance.

He squeezed the trigger, but the man was already in motion. With the fluidity of a well-oiled machine, he crossed the room and dove forward, passing through the window frame, the window's glass itself already shattered by the breaching charge. He went through without so much as nicking any of the sides.

They were trying to escape. The other made for the same escape route, but Locke refused to allow it. He released his grip on his broken knife, grabbing hold of the foe's damaged arm.

Without breaking stride, the man's arm came away at the elbow, and he dove after his companion, leaving Locke with nothing but a detached (and strangely bloodless) arm. Locke cursed, grabbing his assault rifle from where it had fallen. Shielding his face to prevent further damage, and lacking the time to get his helmet, Locke ignited his jump pack and aimed himself at the window.

He clipped one side of the window frame on his way out, smashing it out as it failed to hold up against the effects of the breaching charge and the rocket-boosted Commando in such quick succession.

Locke managed one shot, but the rifle was built to make the most of every shot. A railgun slug spat from the extended barrel with a muffled _crack_, and hit…

…nothing.

Locke plummeted to the street below, triggering his jump pack a second time to bring himself to a slow stop. His enhanced vision swept over his surroundings, but neither of his assailants could be found. They'd exited the apartment barely a second before Locke had. Where could they have gone?

His jump pack deposited him on the apartment's balcony. He forced the locked sliding door open as casually as a civilian would have opened an unlocked door, and surveyed the destruction wrought in just a few short seconds.

But what a few seconds it had been: the apartment was almost completely trashed, a severed prosthetic arm was lying on the ground alongside his bisected combat knife, and his prisoner was dead.

Locke bent over and picked up his fallen helmet, sliding it over his head and sealing it. _Not just dead_, he thought. She had been nullified. Denied. She was no longer an asset to her own organization, and that same group wanted to keep her from being an asset to Locke and GDI.

He lifted the arm and turned it over a few times. It was a beautiful piece of engineering: sleek design, hardened exterior, and additional inner components beyond those required to make the arm functional. Locke guessed that the hidden blade was just one of its capabilities.

For a group as institutionally paranoid as the Global Defense Initiative, evidence was important. They regarded almost everything with the same amount of intrusive scrutiny, but it was evidence that let them know what needed to remain under surveillance. InOps was investigating a thousand tips per day, and had no choice but to discard the cases that simply had no fresh leads.

What was Locke's proof? A headless corpse? A mechanical arm? A tortured confession to a nonspecific crime? The apartment's computer seemed reasonably intact, but the odds of InOps being able to lift anything from it without triggering some sort of failsafe were about as strong as that of a cattle stampede charging unscathed through a minefield.

Dealing with the main body of Nod intelligence and counter-intelligence was one thing. They could run circles around InOps already. But if McCarthy was to be believed, Locke had come face-to-face with agents of the Marked, the transhumanists of Nod. The presence of two cyborg commandos was simply a confirmation of this.

Locke had no worries about the repercussions of his actions. Most Commandos were given quite a bit of autonomy to conduct investigations both in and out of combat zones. He'd not hear so much as a peep from InOps if he were to leave the apartment as it was to be discovered by rescue workers, provided he stripped it of potentially important data first.

His main concern was how he would move forward. This conflict with the turians would not last much longer, and Locke had seen first hand that the Marked was still a force to be taken seriously. But how could he progress? He already considered the computer to be a dead end, his prisoner was dead, and the only physical evidence he had left was-

Locke glanced down at the prosthetic arm a second time. And after a moment of silent reflection, he shrugged. It might lead him nowhere, or it might lead him on a wild goose chase. But more importantly, it stood the chance, however slight, of leading him _some_where. And that was good enough for him.

One thing was for sure: it was going to take him well beyond his allotted twenty-four hours.

* * *

><p>At the Talruum city limits, two figures shimmered into the visual spectrum, hovering some ten feet above the ground. In perfect silence, they dropped to the ground, disengaging their jump packs and cloaking systems simultaneously. During the Second Tiberium Wars, Nod infiltrators had used wingsuits to achieve 'flight' over short distances. With the dawn of mass effect technology, one of their many innovations was the silent jump packs that GDI had yet to even dream of.<p>

_How are your wounds, brother?_ one 'spoke' to the other, no audible words passing between either.

_Acceptable,_ the other replied, not even looking at the socket where his left arm was missing below the elbow, _And our brethren?_

_She rests. Her mind will become one of the Many,_ he 'said,' placing the severed head on the ground in front of him. He knelt in front of it, drawing a small canister from a slot built into his thigh and applying the spray to the head.

_As flesh becomes steel, we commit the flesh to the pyre._

_And by our devotion, we live forever in the Messiah_, the other finished the incantation, just as a spark set the head aflame. It lasted only a few moments. The canister's contents were normally meant for burning through armored bulkheads. Reducing the head to ash was child's play.

With that done, the two turned their attention to a vacant stretch of grass alongside them. With a mental impulse from one, the air opened like a door, revealing what seemed to be a poorly lit pocket-dimension. The two stepped inside, and the air closed behind them.

Moments later, the cloaked infiltration craft lifted off, barely even upsetting the grass beneath it. It was invisible to the naked eye and sensors alike, and the operation had successfully tested and proven that it was effective against turian sensors, too.

In the relative safety of the craft, the first agent ejected a short, cylindrical data core from his right elbow. A cable snaked from his index finger, the same that had tapped into the late doctor's cranial implant, and attached to the data core. After a moment, the cable retracted, and the agent was satisfied by the data core's contents.

With their mission complete, the two left Shanxi behind, allowing the GDI and Hierarchy to fight to their hearts' content. The mission had not called for interference in that conflict, and doing so could very well compromise the Marked, or the Brotherhood as a whole.

No, their mission was complete. The body of Dr. Katherine McCarthy was put to rest, and her mind preserved.

* * *

><p>"<em>Hold your ground, hold your ground!<em>"

"_Focus fire! Don't let-_"

"_Shit! My gun's burned! I can't-_"

The ambush as chaotic as a battlefield could be. Turians and humans were locked in a brutal melee, driven by adrenaline, anger, and stimpacks. Bayonets flashed and spilled blood, muzzle flashes lit up the street, and an ever-increasing dustcloud made visibility almost impossible beyond a few meters.

But if the explosion of comm traffic was any indicator, the warzone had somehow managed to become more terrifying. In the shell of his Wolverine, Specialist Reese had never heard chatter like this during the conflict. He had heard the last words of more pockets of resistance than he'd ever thought possible, but this was different than any. Those had been frantic, certainly, but not this sort of raw fear. However the battle had turned, it had done so in such a way that evoked a primal fear in many of the GDI troops.

"Cover me, Schultz," Reese said, turning his Wolverine as he cut down two more turians with volleys of autocannon fire, "I'm moving east."

"_Acknowledged_," Specialist Melissa Schultz replied, swiveling to fill the field of fire left by Reese's departure. Reese's Wolverine picked up speed, and moved toward the source of the new chaos.

* * *

><p>Gunnery Sergeant Rios saw the newcomers before anyone else. There weren't many of them, but their appearance left no doubt that they were threats even in such limited numbers. The smallest of them was larger than any of his Marines, misshapen and shambling in a way no natural creature would run.<p>

"Hostiles east!" he barked, turning his assault rifle towards the new foes, "Standby to engage!" His squad followed his lead, as did a nearby Marine team outside of the close quarters combat. Their Werewolves cycled to their weapons of choice for the range, and each man picked his target.

"Holy shit," one Marine whispered, just loud enough to be heard over their helmet radios. Rios didn't chew him out because earlier in his military career, he would have reacted the same way.

At the head of the charging group was a veritable monster with a stature that came frighteningly close to matching that of a Wolverine. It thundered across the pavement and rubble, shaking the ground with each footfall. Even at this distance, Rios could tell that it was nothing from the turian arsenal that he'd ever seen.

"Standby…" he ordered, shifting his finger onto the trigger.

"Standby…" They were almost within effective range. On his HUD, a crosshair icon turned from gray to gold.

"Engage!"

His order was met with chilling and unexpected silence. Even in the din of nearby battle, the silence of the Marines' weapons was almost palpable. Rios' eyes widened, and he squeezed the trigger again. No fire spat from the muzzle, no shots raced downrange.

A message flashed alongside the crosshair on his HUD: 'IFF trigger lock, manual override necessary.'

The beasts were closer now. As if to confirm Rios' fears, his HUD painted them with green outlines. As far as his equipment was concerned, they were friendly units.

But as far as Rios was concerned, that couldn't be further from the truth.

"Override weapon safeties!" he shouted, half a command for his gear and half an order to his men, "Now!"

A second confirmation was required to fully deactivate friendly-fire safeties. Precious seconds were wasted as the very protocols designed to keep their comrades safe were threatening to be their undoing.

Over their heads, Airman First Class Anders was encountering similar troubles, and his Orca's EVA was making the override that much more difficult. He'd even drawn a bead on the biggest one of the group, but his guns refused to fire. He cursed, flipping switches as the group blitzed toward the dustcloud, where his heavy weaponry could cause just as much damage to actual GDI personnel as the enemy.

But as the monsters bore down on the GDI firing line, help came from the unlikeliest of sources.

* * *

><p>Commander Kusovai had actually been poised to cut down the distracted GDI troopers. After all, they were the enemy, and he had lost too many men already to their ambush. It would have been just retribution.<p>

But he saw the source of their distraction, and it cut straight to his core. Until now, he had been fighting soldiers. Aliens, to be sure, but they were soldiers nonetheless, professionals, and thus deserving of a certain unspoken respect. These were no soldiers. They had the rough shape of men, and some of their armor resembled those of humans, but from the way the human commander redirected men to counter them, Kusovai knew that they were allied with neither of the two forces battling for Shanxi.

He had no way of knowing why the humans did not open fire, but their movements made it clear that they were trying to do just that. Kusovai had lost his helmet several minutes prior, and a cut on his forehead was leaking blood down his face, but he still managed a grim smile.

"New targets, priority one. Marking now," he spoke into his comm, "Unengaged units, open fire."

Even in the confusion of combat, the Hierarchy soldiers responded instantly. Like clockwork, soldiers towards the head of the convoy shifted aim towards the new targets. They had not seen them before Kusovai had pointed them out, but they did not hesitate in following the order. Discipline drilled in by thousands of years of tradition gave their commander's words the weight of a prophet: on the battlefield, his words were the infallible truth.

Turian small arms opened fire, immediately felling one of the creatures. Others were hit by the coordinated fire, but their armor was deceptively strong. Even those who appeared wounded continued regardless, unphased by pain.

Seconds later, the GDI troops successfully overrode their safeties and added their own fire to the barrage. Two more of the things fell, but that was only three out of nearly two-dozen. A few even appeared to have working kinetic barriers, making them still harder to put down permanently.

They were finally within clear visual range, and Kusovai automatically suppressed a shiver. They were disgusting. Most wore what was once the armor of GDI Marines, but they had long since become twisted almost beyond recognition. Inflamed flesh had grown over armor, blurring the separation between the organic and artificial.

Several raised arms towards turians and humans alike, and mass accelerator shots of various calibers sprayed from their limbs. Many of the creatures had weapons fused with their arms, ranging from rifles and pistols to knives and melee weapons.

But the biggest one among them had arms as thick as most men's waists. Its left ended in several jagged talons, but its right bristled with weaponry. When it brought the weapon-limb to bear, it spat gauss rounds, flurries of automatic fire, and even an ion beam. It ripped two Marines apart by the fury of the veritable armory, and the creature only howled when it came under fire in retaliation.

If the others resembled the basic human infantry, this one looked like a corruption of their powered armor soldiers. Its body was the most macabre of them all, and the most imposing. Its flesh enveloped parts of the armor, but at the same time, the armor grew into the body. It was impossible to say where one began and the other ended, or which was the dominating growth.

Too few of the creatures were dead, and too little damage made against the hulking abomination. Charging through combined turian and human fire, they smashed into the opposing forces with indiscriminate fury, painting the pavement with red and purple blood, raising a new kind of panic among the troops.

* * *

><p>There was no satisfaction to be had crushing insects. As another was unseamed by a slash of the leader's claws, his anger only grew. Their weakness denied him the closure of victory.<p>

Fire fell against his flank, most of it caught and deflected by his armored hide. What few that caused damage left wounds that healed swiftly thereafter, and even then were beneath the leader's notice. He turned on the source of the 'attack' and raised his right arm. Death of a half-dozen forms spewed from it, devouring them in the fusillade.

He heard the scream of one of the thralls, followed by a wet _crunch_. The leader rounded on the direction of the sound.

It was almost beautiful in its purity. It slightly surpassed the leader's size, and had none of the organic weakness he so hated. It was what he aspired to: the purity of the machine. Even now, it raised its foot from the broken remains of a dead thrall, its torso turned into little more than meat in a footprint.

But the leader's memory twitched, driving another hot knife into his mind. He remembered a single detail for a moment, but it nonetheless told him what he needed to know.

The glorious machine was a mere shell, opening and closing to let the flesh-things experience its power but leave whenever they saw fit. Somewhere inside it was one of the creatures the leader despised, and he would rend and tear until he removed it.

His eyes fell on the arms of the machine. They were more powerful than even the leader's own, but they remained silent. A new emotion flickered into being, forming at the edge of his rage. Want. Desire. Greed.

The leader charged. He would claim its guns as his own, and cut out its jailer like the cancer it was.

And maybe then his hunger would be sated.

* * *

><p>"<em>Caution. Collision course with friendly units<em>," Reese's EVA announced in a level tone. A proximity warning went off to his left, and he twisted the mech toward it just as a body struck him.

In the shape it was in, it _should_ have been a corpse, but the corroded monstrosity's screaming face filled his forward view. Reese instinctively bucked, shaking it partially loose before making a swing with one of the Wolverine's short arms. The thing was thrown off, and Reese turned the muzzles of his autocannons to finish it before it could recover.

"_Line of sight obstructed: Private First Class Harrison Wheeler identified,_" the EVA spoke again. Reese cursed the safeguard as a volley of fire ripped from the monstrosity's arm, peppering his shields with automatic fire.

"_Caution. Collision course with-_" Reese ignored the new warning as he threw the Wolverine forward, crushing the howling creature under one of his three-toed feet. He swiftly moved to override the friendly-fire restrictions, but stalled with his hand over the final sequence.

He had no idea what he had just killed, but whatever it was, it had a GDI signature. And in the obscurity of the war-torn streets, he had been relying heavily on the IFF sensors to distinguish between friendly and hostile troops. The Marines had a similar system, but they only held rifles. Reese had a Wolverine at his disposal, and its two autocannons left no margin for error.

"_Caution. Colli-_" the EVA didn't even have time to finish her warning as an impact rocked the Wolverine. The internal gyro whined to keep him upright, and Reese spun practically on one foot to face the new threat.

Like the creature whose remains would need to be scraped from beneath Reese's foot, this one filled his forward view, but for an altogether different reason. This one was huge, nearly as big as his Wolverine, and it wasted no time in attacking the mech.

Reese's damage schematic lit up like a Christmas tree as it slashed its claws against his front, bypassing his kinetic barriers and scouring four deep trenches in his armor plating. Out of instinct, Reese pulled the triggers of his autocannons, cursing himself even before the EVA informed him why no fire spewed from their muzzles.

"_Line of sight obst-_"

"It fucking well isn't!" Reese shouted uselessly at the EVA. It could restrict his ability to fire, but it couldn't restrict his movement. With that in mind, he swung the autocannons as improvised clubs, smashing the creature back and giving him room to breathe.

"_-ich Kastner identified._"

"Override IFF protocols, conf…" Reese began, but paused as he processed the EVA's words, and a cold fear gripped his gut.

"Repeat last," he ordered, watching with rising panic as the creature recovered from a blow that could have bent a tank barrel.

"_Line of sight obstructed: Lance Corporal Ulrich Kastner identified._"

* * *

><p>"Goddamnit," Airman First Class Anders muttered, switching through visual filters in an effort to cut through the dustcloud. He had dispatched the enemy air support, but something was going horribly wrong on the streets below, and he couldn't make out any of it, much less help. He was the single greatest concentration of GDI firepower on the battlefield, and he was useless.<p>

Finally, it worked. One of the filters stripped away the cloud, and only at the cost of coloring his field of vision green. Below him, the street was filled with glowing skeletons and white muzzle flashes. The scene was surreal enough _without_ witnessing GDI-designated figures tearing into their comrades and turians alike.

They didn't walk or run so much as shamble, like some sort of malformed ape. And through the filter, Anders could see that their skeletons, while possibly _once_ human, had long since abandoned any semblance of human anatomy.

His neurohelmet made marking them simple, a process that took less than a second. It was an essential one, though. They were marked as friendly units by the default IFF system, and his guns would go out of their way to avoid hitting them. With them designated as a third faction, Anders now has no such problem.

A problem he _did_ have, however, was picking them off without killing actual friendly units. These…things, whatever they were, had a penchant for diving into close quarters, and many of the GDI troops were already in a brawl with their Hierarchy counterparts.

Anders frowned, realizing that there was a simple way to thin their numbers. It hadn't occurred to him because he'd momentarily thought of the turian troopers in the same category as his fellow GDI soldiers. Had the thought come to him someplace less chaotic, outside of the battlefield, it might have made Airman First Class Anders reconsider the notion that humans and turians were incomparable opposites.

Instead, he merely grinned and turned his guns on the creatures amidst turian troop pockets. With two volleys of his 30mm chin gun, well over a dozen turian soldiers were torn to pieces, and two of the creatures went with them.

"_Caution. Collision course with-_" His EVA's voice was drowned by the _thuds_ of twin impacts. The Orca swayed slightly under the sudden increase in weight, and Anders craned his neck to see the source.

Anders was frozen in shock when he saw the demon clawing its way onto the glass, and it took an even greater shock to snap him out of it. The creature howled noiselessly, muffled by the soundproof canopy, but the full orchestra of chaos flooded into the cockpit when it rammed a malformed arm through the glass.

It was against all reason: the Orca gunship's canopy was rated to resist virtually all small arms up to anti-tank weapons. But the hot pain that suddenly hit his chest when the blades at the end of the arm slashed through his harness and jumpsuit convinced Anders that this was all-too real.

Anders twisted the gunship, throwing the creature off balance. Its arm was still in the cockpit, and the knife-like appendage was slashing the air dangerously close to the airman. But it had lost its footing, and Anders used the chance to draw the sidearm holstered on his thigh.

By the time he had it drawn, the demon's other hand, had wrapped around the edge of the hole, pulling outward. Its strength was astonishing. The canopy continued to crack and break away under its grip, even though Anders could see that it was cutting itself to the bone in the process. Its screaming face filled the widening hole just as Anders gritted his teeth, raised the pistol, and pulled the trigger. He didn't stop until the creature lost its grip, tumbling away from the ship with the better part of its face and head shot to nothing.

With the immediate risk gone, Anders winced as the pain of his wound sank in. The 'claws' had cut through his flight suit and made a shallow gash across his chest. It hurt, but not unbearably so.

Unfortunately, he remembered that second _thud_ a moment too late. The shrieking of tortured metal sounded all-too close thanks to the hole in the canopy. Anders looked over his shoulder to see that the other contact had landed on one of the Orca's stubby 'wings,' quickly becoming pinned to the grating that protected the turbofans from being disrupted by falling debris. Its subsequent trashing against the powerful pull of the fan had been sufficient to rend the mesh and, to the misfortune of both the creature and Anders, into the whirling blades.

Normally, the turbofan would have had no problem reducing a human body to red mist. But this creature had not only the thick body armor of a GDI infantryman, but the hardy weapons that had served him in his former life, not to mention whatever reinforcement his infection had given him.

The blades ripped the thing in half, but finally caught on something too tough to cut, or that simply jammed in just the right place. From the expanded conciousness of his neurohelmet, Anders immediately knew the extent of the damage without the need of the damage schematics that lit up on his console, and the results chilled him to the bone.

He quickly diverted power from the shields to boost the lift of the remaining fan and enhance the weight reduction of his mass-effect generator, but even then, chances of preventing a crash were slim.

And those chances evaporated to nothing as an opportunistic turian soldier landed a shot from an anti-armor launcher near the struggling turbofan. Anders cursed and began to shout a warning to troops below. It was all there was left to do.

* * *

><p>"<em>Stormcloud actual, losing altitude! Brace for-<em>"

The comm signal came out as the Orca descended rapidly, spiraling and trailing smoke from its crippled turbofan. The abrupt change from its normal continuous roar to a strained howl as Anders fought for control was enough to alert most troops to its plight, even in the midst of combat. Jump packs propelled Marines from the soon-to-be impact site, and not a moment too soon: the Orca landed hard, shattering pavement and grinding to a swift halt. Anders' skill prevented the worst of the damage, but it wouldn't be airworthy again any time soon, and the pilot's fate was unknown inside the cracked canopy.

Staff Sergeant Maryia Pelayo knew that a downed gunship was an easy target. Troops further down the column were reporting new contacts, and the gunship would likely be swarmed in short order.

"Trance, Edge, with me," she ordered, leaving the remainder of her soldiers to their current duties. The three ignited their jump packs, lifting them over the better part of the dust cloud for a few seconds. Muzzle flashes shone dimly from the obscuring haze, and only their IFF system gave them anything resembling a chance of distinguishing friend from foe.

The moment passed, and the three fell back into the fray, landing within sight of the downed gunship even with their reduced range of vision. Pelayo aimed her weapon from the hip at the nearest pair of targets and pulled the trigger. The link between weapon and wielder was one of the greatest advantages to powered armor, and Raider armor was no exception.

The sonic blaster screamed its deadly cry, now infamous among the turian soldiers. The two targets dropped, killed mercifully quickly by whatever horrific internal injuries the weapon had inflicted. Alongside her, Trance and Edge were picking targets and firing at will, none breaking stride as they moved to cover the gunship.

"Keep me covered. Checking Stormcloud," Pelayo didn't waste words, but the Raiders moved to cover her immediately. With a quick boost from her jump pack, Pelayo landed on the nose of the gunship. Her free hand hooked under the damaged canopy and pulled, tearing it off and exposing the pilot within.

There was relatively little blood, though he had obvious wounds on his chest and one arm. But his entire body trembled as if he was freezing cold, and his one uninjured arm was pawing at his helmet. He managed to undo the chinstrap, but Pelayo wrenched it off for him.

"He's alive, but pretty banged up," she informed her two comrades, then opened a wider frequency, "Immediate medical attention required at crash site. Any available corpsman-"

"_Holy shit!_" one of the two, Trance, interrupted. Pelayo turned to see her firing her sonic blaster point-blank at a charging foe, an act which should have reduced its innards to a slurry. Instead, the enemy's grotesque appearance was matched only by its resilience. It merely stumbled, letting out an inhuman scream, lashing out at the Raider with a weapon that seemed to meld seamlessly with its arm.

The creature's eyes were just ruptured membranes, and a crimson liquid too dark for blood poured from its ears and screaming maw. It finally fell, mere feet from Trance, finally reduced to a twitching heap. The Raider triggered her jump pack to send her backwards and further from the bizarre corpse, but a second mutant struck her from the flank, followed by a third.

"Trance!" Pelayo shouted, giving a quick gesture to Edge before rolling her left hand into a fist and triggering her punch-dagger, "Blades only! Get them off her!" Powered armor offered some degree of protection against sonic blasters, but given the resistance of the first kill, Pelayo didn't want to risk killing Trance with the fire meant to rescue her before it killed her attackers.

But even as they charged to help their beleaguered comrade, one of the creature's weapon-limbs stabbed into a panel of Trance's armor. The blade stabbed deep, but the worst damage came when the gun module alongside opened fire. At close range and without the kinetic barriers to provide initial protection, multiple shots penetrated before the creature was pulled off the struggling Raider by Pelayo's armor-enhanced muscles.

The creature writhed on the ground as Pelayo fired her sonic blaster, the barrel nearly touching its chest. It died swiftly, but one still remained. Pelayo spun to see Edge ram her dagger into its chest. The creature's eyes blazed with madness as it stunned Edge and Pelayo both by surging forward, carried by a jump pack somewhere in the half metal, half flesh mound on its back.

Even with the stability and strength of powered armor, Edge was forced back by the sudden impact. Her dagger-arm was pinned to her chest and her right arm still holding her sonic blaster, leaving her fatally indecisive when the creature rammed its own weapon-limb into her shoulder.

Whether it was an overtaxed heavy weapon module, a grenade, or something else, Pelayo would never be sure, and Edge wouldn't live to ponder. Instead of gunfire, the creature exploded as surely as if it had been wearing a suicide vest. Even with the protection offered by the powered armor, Edge was killed instantly. The armor's resilience simply meant that there was a body left to identify.

The roar of a Wolverine's autocannons grabbed Pelayo's attention as she helped Trance unsteadily to her feet. After a moment, her suit's auto-injector had given her something to take the edge off the pain and stave off shock. She would be operational for the time being.

Pelayo raised her weapon, but couldn't fire at the sight laid out before her. The attack by the mutants only then sank in, and the realization that _this_ was the foe that had entered the fray: neither human nor turian, but something terrifyingly different.

The Zone Raiders were a notorious for their perceived lack of discipline, usually manifesting as much more relaxed interactions among the chain of command, but that came with the job. They were tough enough to weather the most hostile of conditions and brave (or crazy) enough to willingly dive into them to fight the enemy hiding within.

But as the Wolverine moved into view, spewing sparks from a jagged tear across its front armor, firing autocannon bolts too closely to reliably hit the towering monstrosity that assailed it, Pelayo felt despair for the first time in the invasion.

* * *

><p>The Wolverine's shell was breached and kinetic barriers were long since offline. The twin autocannons were growing dangerously hot, threatening to shut down automatically to prevent them from outright melting.<p>

But none of those factors seemed that pressing to Reese. His concern focused on the hulking monster assailing him, and his EVA's insistence that it was one of his closest friends.

He'd not seen or heard from Ulrich Kastner since before the invasion began. He'd been a part of Findlay's company, but the 34th Heavy Infantry had been heavily fragmented during the urban combat. One of the biggest concentrations had been in Master Sergeant Willis' doomed command, and plenty of their members were still unaccounted for.

Reese felt numb, barely able to keep his Wolverine in motion. How was he supposed to react? If he had found Kastner wounded, or even dead, that would have been tragic, but familiar. He had seen that scene dozens of times during the course of the occupation. But this…this was unreal. Reese had never seen anything like it, even among Nod.

The IFF continued to blink his identity, mocking Reese with the horror of the revelation. Gone was the vindictive satisfaction that had come with killing turians and adding tally marks to his Wolverine, and the reckless detachment that had been eating at him for weeks now. There was only fear: not just fear of the monster before him, but fear of what had created it, and fear for a future that contained abominations like it.

"_Reese! Danger close!_" The mech pilot struggled to break out of his stupor and lurched backward, just in time for the howling beast to be engulfed in a barrage of light rockets. A Zone Raider was a short distance away, unloading the missile racks on either shoulder that would normally be reserved for air targets. They proved effective enough, and sludge-like blood splattered the pavement as the monster reeled.

Reese managed to bring his autocannons back up and on target, but the creature exploded forward, literally. What Reese guessed was the remains of a Zone trooper's jump pack practically set off a directed explosion behind it, sending it hurtling forward and back between the line of fire of either autocannon.

Remembering his breeched cockpit and the danger it posed, Reese twisted the mech's waist, smashing one of the barrels into his attacker's side. He began to back up again when he jerked to a halt, seeing with horror the five clawed fingers wrapped around the inside of the rent cockpit and began peeling it back as if it were tin foil.

As the creature braced itself, two things stood out among all others. The first was the wounds left by the rocket barrage. Devastating as they had been, flaying the muscle-armor substance to the bone, 'flesh' that seemed closer to liquid metal crawled back across the wounds, hissing as it set in place.

Even as its damaged body welded away the signs of Pelayo's attack, new wounds blossomed across its body. Some sparked on its thick armor, but others found chinks and the 'flesh' beneath, spilling its unnaturally dark blood.

The high-caliber munitions of the M5 'Grinder' could pierce the hulls of lightly armored vehicles, reduce even heavy infantry to red paste in seconds. But PFCs Sarah Walters and Daniel Swaim watched as the demon tanked a sustained burst that had previously obliterated a turian light tank.

"Getting hot, Sarah," Swaim warned, ready with a replacement power cell, "Put that thing down before we need a new pack."

"Harder than it looks," Walters grunted, teeth shaking with the sustained fire of the heavy weapon. The target was unnaturally resilient, to be sure, but it was wavering, and the damage was taking its toll. Its capacity to heal was slower than the Grinder's ability to inflict wounds, too.

"Shit! Watch it!" Swaim dropped the power cell and struggled to bring his slung Werewolf to bear. Walters didn't even release the firing studs as two of the smaller abominations came into view, their jump packs still functional even in their advanced state of mutation.

They were almost on top of the duo when Swaim caught sight of them. His rifle barked twice, punching two holes through the first target's body. But the medium to long-ranged weapon module's damage was offset by over-penetration: the wounds had been inflicted so quickly and with such force that the attacker wouldn't even be slowed by them, given their frightening tolerance for pain.

Swaim's rifle fired a third time as the first of the creatures alighted on the balcony's railing. This time, the shot caught it below the chin, blasting out through the back of its head along with most of what constituted its brain.

But the second was still very much alive, and Walters forced herself to release her grip on the Grinder and draw her sidearm, lacking the time to retrieve her rifle. Four shots in quick succession staggered the creature as it landed, but if it felt the impacts, it simply didn't care enough to stop. It lurched forward, weapon-limb outstretched, only to be thrown off course by a flying tackle from Swaim.

"Fuck's sake, kill it!" Swaim screamed, landing in a frantic grapple with the creature. His fear was justified: even as a GDI Marine, the creature clearly had the edge in hand-to-hand combat, and the blade that protruded from one of its palms opened a wound on the side of Swaim's throat.

A single shot ended the fight. Walters dropped her sidearm and rushed to her partner's side. The corpse of the creature twitched spasmodically, blood and gray matter dripping from the entry and exit wounds on either side of its head.

Swaim was in bad shape. The knife hadn't slit his throat, but it had come dangerously close to it. Blood spurted between his fingers as he clamped a hand on his neck, still trying to kick away the body of the dead monster.

"_Support team, get off the balcony!_"

Walters rose shaking to her feet, and saw the reason for the warning. As she did, in the span of an instant, a flurry of 30mm autocannon shells ripped through the balcony, effectively disintegrating both her and her wounded partner.

* * *

><p>The leader fell to his knees, bracing himself with his left arm as the change took place. It was agonizing, as nearly all changes to his body had been, but he knew the power it would bring him, and he endured.<p>

The enslaved machine lay on its back, right shoulder sparking where its weapon had been ripped away. The leader's own right arm now embraced the wide-barreled cannon, eager to add it to his already potent arsenal. The cold presence may have been gone, but its powers were still in full effect. The leader's 'skin' swam freely, shifting armor plates and extending tendrils to pull the new weapon into his body.

To the leader, it was as if his arm was being superheated and remolded, but as the agony subsided, his tech-riddled brain rewired itself to 'feel' the new weapon, making it no less a part of his body as any of his other limbs.

The first recipients of his wrath were the insects who mauled him with fire from above. The flow of chems increased as the leader turned them into nothing with the power of his new weapon.

Retaliatory fire washed over him, but it may as well have been rain against his armored hide. In return, the leader's cannon devoured the cluster of soldiers. By now, the chem-induced haze rendered the leader unable to distinguish between their races, not that he cared to. They were all-

_Pain_. His every cell screamed at once, and he roared as he rounded on the source of it. One of the armored soldiers, its weapon screaming its own death-wail, dared to stand its ground against him.

He charged towards his new target.

* * *

><p>Lance Corporal Lisa 'Trance' Peters kept up the output of her sonic blaster, letting loose a volley of rockets without missing a beat. The hulk stumbled through the detonations, but the wounds did not immediately begin mending themselves as they had before when hit by a similar barrage by Pelayo.<p>

But it was nowhere near dead, and Trance knew tat she was stretching her window of opportunity. It lunged for her, left claw outstretched, as she triggered her jump-jets.

Trance cursed weakly as the talons closed around her armored boot. With contemptuous ease, the creature's grip nullified the lift of her jump-jets and held her suspended in the air. If it had been anything resembling a normal foe, it might've grinned, but Trance doubted there was anything of the sort going on inside the enclosed helmet.

Pelayo rocketed toward her comrade, but an ion blast from the creature's right arm sent her crashing to the pavement, her armor scorched and shields broken. She struggled to raise her sonic blaster, but the taloned hand already clenched Trance's leg. Armor strained and then buckled under its immense strength, and Trance screamed as she fired her sonic blaster point-blank.

For a moment, the grip tightened further, but the beast whipped Trance across the road as it howled under the fresh assault. The Raider hit the ground hard, one of her legs reduced to a mangled mess.

* * *

><p>The leader stumbled, wounds finally beginning to seal when the damned weapon was no longer focused on him. He felt…fear? No, only confusion, a momentary gap between pain and fury.<p>

The moment lengthened as he felt a sharp pain beneath his weapon-limb. He swung the arm like a club, narrowly passing over the new attacker's head as it ducked the blow.

The leader rounded on the new foe. The insects never ceased their efforts, even in the face of his terrible might. Something twitched in his mind, something that remembered resistance, whatever the odds…the thought triggered a fresh wave of pain, pounding the unwanted thoughts into the recesses of his sick mind and drowning it in a fresh stream of chems.

The new attacker ripped a blade from the leader's underarm. He ducked under the swinging weapon-limb and landing a safe distance away, just far enough to be out of the reach of the deadly talons, but close enough to render the hulking weapon-limb ineffective.

Another wave of agony came as the leader laid eyes on the armored human. It was more than simple recognition of the species: it was recognition of this specific face, visible through a faceplate that was half-broken by prior fighting.

F…Find…lay?

A grotesque spray of nanomachine-infected flesh exploded from the leader's back as his buried jump-jets ignited. He screamed as even in death, the cold presence tried to follow is modified purpose, burying his memories beneath white-hot pain.

Beneath the combatants' feet, the ground began to tremble.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sergeant Findlay's fighting it, but he's barely holding. Cap, we can't stop this thing!<em>"

The frantic comm chatter was nearly constant at this point. Acting Captain Dante had at first listened, but he had already been considering personal action even before this new development. From what he could hear, one of the Wolverines was disabled, its pilot possibly dead, the gunship was grounded, and the infantry were being cut apart (often literally) by the unexpected third party.

Dante assumed that the turians were taking the brunt of the casualties, but of his fifty Marines and fifteen Zone troopers, nearly twenty of the Marines were dead or unresponsive, and six Zone troopers along with them. Staff Sergeant Pelayo had bolstered their ranks with twelve Raiders, but even among them, four were dead, mostly to the new attackers.

"Captain Dante to all units: hold your ground," Dante ordered, "Reinforcement is en route, ETA thirty seconds."

He glanced to his three fellow soldiers, some of the few remaining faces he knew from the 7th Armored. They moved with practiced ease, and a sense of relief that only came from plunging so far into despair that they burst from the other side. It could be dangerous on the battlefield, to feel that way, but this was the end, one way or another.

"Combat sighted. Switching visual filters," Lance Corporal Dabis announced. Dante nodded, satisfied.

"Keep us moving, private."

"Understood, sir," PFC Burns replied, "Twenty seconds to range."

* * *

><p>Sergeant Findlay swore as he leaned backward, just far enough that a swiping talon only grazed his armor. Even then, it cut a thin trench through the thick plates, which spoke volumes of how devastating it out be should he ever allow the creature to land a solid hit.<p>

Findlay was running out of options, though. He'd already rammed his sizable combat blade into one of the few vulnerable spots he knew Zone armor to have, and all it had done was draw the creature's attention. His punch-dagger was practically useless in this fight, and he'd lost his Werewolf some time ago in his duel with the turian officer.

"_Down!_" a familiar voice barked, and Findlay instinctively ducked as a flurry of rockets streaked over his head. The creature stumbled back under the fusillade, and Pelayo moved from behind Findlay to the Zone trooper's side.

"_Got any ideas?_" her voice came through both her external speakers and Findlay's comm. His faceplate was half gone, so the Raider could see when Findlay shook his head inside his domed helmet.

"Nothing smart. How many more rockets you got?"

"_Now? Zero,_" Pelayo deadpanned, raising her sonic blaster, "_But there's plenty of juice here._"

Had he not been so high on adrenaline, Findlay would have been rendered catatonic when the sonic blaster abruptly exploded in a shower of sparks and light shrapnel. Pelayo cursed, and both soldiers saw the dying muzzle flash on the hulk's arm cannon. It didn't matter much if it was intentional or a lucky shot: it still left them both without any substantial ranged weapon to fight against a foe that proved nearly unkillable in close quarters.

"_ETA fifteen seconds. Get it into a clearing if you can._" A new voice in both their ears, the voice of the captain. Both their minds raced as the beast lumbered forward, oblivious to their calculations. They needed to drive it back, far enough to give them room to escape, and in an area that left it without cover.

But fifteen seconds was no time for that. Their blades flashed and drew dark blood and sparks, but neither had much of a chance of moving the creature somewhere it did not wish to go. And if they tried to lure it by fleeing with their jump-jets, it would simply obliterate them with its looted autocannon.

"_Ten seconds. Anyone available, paint me a target._" That was easy enough. Pelayo and Findlay simultaneously designated the hulk as a priority threat with their HUDs, but its blows showed no sign of stopping or slowing, and both came to a grim conclusion: the only way to clear it of friendly cover might be to die at its hands.

"_Sean! Incoming!_"

The warning came barely in time for Findlay to respond, and a second too late for Peyalo. It was only by grabbing ahold of an empty rocket-rack that Findlay was able to pull her from the path of their saving grace.

Even with its shell torn half-open and a single arm remaining, Specialist Reese's Wolverine was still bigger than the abomination, and it could build up speed over a short distance as only a recon unit could. Its gunless shoulder smashed into the creature's side like a freight train, buckling previously impenetrable metal and breaking whatever bones remained within.

It had stumbled before under the impact of heavier fire, but for the first time, the towering monster fell to the ground. The Wolverine continued past it, skidding onto a single leg as Reese struggled to keep his own footing. Ironically, the lopsided weight distribution that came with the loss of one weapon made the task manageable, and he quickly regained his footing and backpedaled from the fallen creature.

It pushed its left arm against the ground, but a burst from Reese's remaining autocannon caused the joint to twist unnaturally, dropping it to the pavement again as it howled. The stream of shells was inaccurate, as Reese had lost the better part of his targeting system, but it had worked well enough.

"_Target acquired, danger close!_"

* * *

><p>The leader struggled to right itself with its broken arm to no avail. The machine-slave still had fangs, and it had proven a fatal mistake for the leader to abandon it on its back, broken but not slain. He managed to force the barrel of its right limb under his immense bulk, pushing himself up just enough to see the face of his hated foe.<p>

In that moment, the leader froze, because he _could_ see the face of his enemy, between the rent armor of his enslaved machine. Neurons fired within his mind, and his programming fought harder than ever to suppress the loathed recognition. The pain stabbed directly into his ravaged nerves, so powerful that it did not even permit him to howl.

A name was there, too. The face of the inferior flesh-thing had a name, and the leader knew it. And as the remnant of the cold presence worked to suppress what he had been, the face triggered another name.

_His_ name.

The leader's vision faded to whiteness as he ascended beyond simple pain. It left him with something wholly different and infinitely worse: fear. It was an end to his anger, his greed, his hatred, and the realization that his unseeing eyes were staring into a terrifying void. Only one thing stared back. It would have been a comfort for it to have been the void itself.

Instead, the leader stared into the void, and the ghost of Lance Corporal Ulrich Kastner stared back.

* * *

><p>A hole appeared in the behemoth's body that tore his right arm from his torso, taking a piece of his shoulder with it. The shot had over penetrated, and detonated downrange.<p>

The second hit, and exploded, as planned. The blast consumed the creature in fire, followed swiftly by another shot, and another.

Findlay's ears abruptly stopped working, and a hot feeling began to drip down the sides of his head. He cursed, and didn't hear his own voice. But his attention was focused on the writhing monstrosity, miraculously still moving after the barrage. Its right arm and its body from the waist down were gone, leaving it only with its useless left arm.

Its struggles had grown weak, even though its body was still trying uselessly to repair the horrific damage. Enough of its armor had been ripped off by the blast to expose what remained of the human who had formed the nucleus of the beast, and Findlay fought back nausea at the sight. Armor and flesh had almost no boundary, and tendrils of metal and cables bulged under his skin.

Findlay moved closer when Pelayo signaled the end of the barrage, and there he saw its eyes. They were blood red, save for the dark retinas and faded irises. Its chest didn't rise or fall with breathing, but Findlay assumed that whatever did this to him had removed the function of most organs. It had to have, given that it still lived even after the loss of so many.

Pelayo accepted a spare sonic blaster from a newly-arrived Raider, and Findlay looked down the street to their reinforcement.

The ground continued to shake as the Mammoth Mk. IV rolled onward, moving over rubble and debris as if they were no more than speed bumps. Within its armored bulk, Acting Captain Dante sagged in his seat. That was it, in more ways than one.

"_Captain Dante to all units: fall back to the _Inferno._ We're done here._" The signal had been a long time coming, and it required relatively little change in the battlefield conduct along the street. Most of the GDI and Hierarchy forces had turned their focus on the third-party monstrosities, and the last of them had fallen at around the same time as the giant had. After the order, a few bursts of small arms went off, but there was no drive behind it as there had been at the start of the ambush.

The _Inferno_ was in as good shape as it had been when it first entered Frank Company's garage/HQ, and even if the turians had pressed the attack, they would have been at a disadvantage. And if the GDI had remained to wipe them out, reinforcements would just as likely converge on _them_ and return the favor.

One way or another, the lust for battle had evaporated, leaving only a solemn withdrawal by both sides, bloodied but alive.

* * *

><p>"I repeat, do <em>not<em> engage enemy armor," Moraxus Telgore ordered, physically waving an arm to draw the attention of his troopers, "Pull back and regroup."

"_Commander Kusovai here_," the turian commanding officer's voice came through weak, and was punctuated by a cough, "_Sub-commander Telgore's orders are confirmed. Pull back immediately._" Axe couldn't see where the commander was, but from the sound of it, he had been on the receiving end of some of the worst of the fighting. So had many of the reinforced company, now grievously under strength. All around him, troopers were moving those too wounded to walk into whatever vehicles they had remaining.

Axe took one more glance at the now-distant humans. His vision was aided by the prosthetic, but the dust cloud was beginning to settle as the forces parted. He thought for a moment that he saw the armored soldier he had fought, but two more were in plain view, and he cast the idle thought aside.

The silhouette of the human tank was an awe-inspiring sight. One of them had been at the government center before its annihilation, and during the initial invasion, their seemingly-primitive design had proven to be tougher and more powerful than virtually anything the turians had to counter with. He counted himself lucky that it had not opened fire on them and forced the battle's continuation.

He shuddered as he caught momentary sight of one of the _Morkant_ powered armor. One of their sound-cannons had cost him his eye, and almost much more than that. He would be happy to be back at base and out of sight of this city.

* * *

><p><strong>January 11, 2158<strong>

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta System**

That was it. Midnight. The official end to all armed conflict on Shanxi.

_Funny_, Acting-Captain Dante poured amber liquid from a flask into five outstretched cups, _Hardly feels it_.

Around him, what remained of Frank Company's officers stood in silence. Sergeant Findlay was out of his Zone armor, though his still had half a head on even next tallest of the group. Both his ears were bandaged, concealing whatever work a corpsman had done on his damaged eardrums. Specialist Reese was alongside him, hair freshly cut close to his scalp for the first time in weeks. The glimmer of green that marked his mutation was as visible as it would ever be.

Staff Sergeant Pelayo, like Findlay, was out of her armor. Her black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, and (again, like Findlay) her gray tank top was adorned only by her stenciled name over her left breast. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion. Having fought on the move for weeks had made normal sleep a challenge she had yet to fully conquer.

Airman First Class Anders was the only one of the group to sit, but none held it against him in the slightest. His hands still trembled faintly and his eyes moved in and out of focus periodically. Dante was told that this was a consequence of severe feedback from the neurohelmet during his crash.

Last was Gunnery Sergeant Tyson Rios. Dante had said little before the operation, but he knew Rios had gone out into the field with the intent that it would be his last battle. Instead, he had personally killed at least one of the abominations in close quarters, and rallied his men after they had taken a terrible beating from their charge.

Dante kept his gaze from falling on spaces he knew would be empty. No one had moved into the location where Staff Sergeant Elliot Salem would normally have stood next to Rios, and the empty space seemed especially lifeless as a result.

There was no sign of Specialist Locke, and the Commando couldn't be reached by comms. Dante assumed the worst; even Commandos were not immortal, and his last brush with the turian special forces had left him scarred badly enough to kill most normal men.

The last space was never occupied by a person, at least not in a traditional sense. The pin-covered map of Talruum had been a work-in-progress since the start of their guerilla campaign, and it served now as a reminder of Frank company's burden of survival: Volkov, Willis, Campbell, and a half-dozen others had not made it through the fight. Some were better equipped than Frank company, others dug-in better, and still others possessing greater manpower. But their bastions had fallen, and of those worth marking, all that remained was Frank company.

Dante raised the flask and said simply,

"To absent friends."

The others raised their cups and echoed the toast. No one could think of any more that needed to be said.

* * *

><p>The most immediate benefit of the fighting's end was the ability to move much-needed medical supplies. Cryopods from local hospitals were reserved for the most grievously wounded, usually those who couldn't be treated planetside. Three of these were kept in a guarded room of Frank company's garage, separate from the improvised medical bay.<p>

The first held someone beyond help, even if the GDI had been inclined to grant it. The cryopod was mostly to preserve the body and keep it separate from the rest of the dead and injured, as the officers were unwilling to risk it being lost among them. The asari commando's corpse had been meticulously examined to the best of their ability, but Dante and his staff knew that it would be far more valuable once in GDI hands offworld.

The second pod's tenant was Lance Corporal Lisa 'Trance' Parker. Her leg had been mangled beyond the corpsmen's ability to repair on-site, but their concern lay primarily with the strange infection that was beginning to take hold of the mangled limb. Most disturbingly, it had been in the process of realigning shattered bone when the decision was made to keep Trance in stasis.

Inside the third pod lay the creature who had infected Trance. Its full size would have been impossible to contain inside a normal cryopod, and even in its ravaged state, the 'pod' was improvised from a large storage crate with a cryo function, meant to transport perishable goods over long distances. Normally, such an improvisation would be risky or even deadly for a living thing. The crate was meant to literally freeze, not place into a safe, suspended animation as the cryopods did.

Frozen and unmoving, the monster nonetheless lived. No one was sure how it could still be alive after the damage the _Inferno_ had inflicted on it, and no one wanted to be the one to crack its shell and find out. Instead, they put it on ice, sealed the container, and said a prayer for the unfortunate soul who would have to open it back up.

* * *

><p><strong>Posting the final part tomorrow, mostly just as an epilogue. <strong>


	9. Signifying Nothing

**February 4, 2158**

**Human colony: Shanxi**

**Shanxi-Theta system**

Fleet Master Entra Shadoon had not slept well since the official end to the invasion. Few human forces kept fighting after the twenty-four hour mark had passed, and even then, most had ceased resistance when turian forces broadcasted the order to stand down from their general. Many of them had simply lost radio contact weeks ago and continued their fight in the dark, not knowing if they were the last of their race alive on the planet.

Normally, turian military doctrine was clear: resistance was not tolerated. Surrender or be crushed. These final-fighters by all rights _should_ have simply been destroyed for disregarding their general, albeit unintentionally, and resisting the power of the Turian Hierarchy, but…Entra spared them.

He could have rained death on their heads from orbit, turned their improvised bunkers and fortifications into glass craters, but he did not. He had felt no satisfaction in the destruction of the government center, and the sentiment had grown from mere professional detachment to a sour taste in his mouth. The whole conflict felt wrong somehow. It began with a skirmish, and escalated into the enslavement of-

_No. Not enslavement_, Entra caught himself. He had seen enslavement on a galactic scale, and this was far from it. But nonetheless, it was the subjugation of an entire race, one that had only just reached out a hand into the stars over their heads, only for the boot of the Hierarchy military to crush it.

How would the human's history remember this? For the turians, this was mere policing, but for the humans, it would be remembered as the war that ended their control over their own race. To be a race under the domain under the Hierarchy was not a bad thing, but the human parable of 'the bird in a golden cage' fit the situation. No matter the benefits of Hierarchy rule, it was forced on them. They already hated the turians for the damage to their world and the deaths of thousands of their people, and that hate would only grow. And if their military ever caught up to their hatred…

Entra suppressed a shudder. He knew of the humans' skill in planetside warfare, and knew that it was those doctrines that would influence how their spacecraft would develop. Their vehicles had armor to shame the krogan, and some of their weapons were innovative in ways that even the salarians had not yet devised. At least the Hierarchy would have the benefit of the salvaged technology dispatched a few days after the surrender, not to mention Commander Ulthwe Saim. The Hierarchy had big plans for him.

The Fleet Master rubbed his temples, closing his eyes and willing the description-defying colors that churned in the darkness of his eyelids to leave him. Sometimes they took shape, but other times, they were simple there, too distracting to let him rest for more than a short time, and never truly sleep. He knew the implications of their victory, and he dreaded what would come from it. A race with vast potential subjugated violently by an alien force? It could never be trusted. Lust for revenge did not die with a single generation. If strong enough, it could take on a life of its own. It could grow to the point that it needed no reason other than having once had a reason, even if that reason was long forgotten.

"_Fleet Master, your presence is required._"

Entra opened his eyes and waved a hand over his left arm, lighting up his omni-tool opening his side of the communication channel.

"Very well. Do you have news of the relief force?"

"_No, Fleet Master. We cannot establish contact them._"

"Interference, then," Entra stood from his chair, glancing about his private quarters for the parts of his uniform he had shed while fruitlessly trying to rest, "The humans filled their atmosphere with 'ion' particles. Destroying their orbital emplacements did not make it any better."

"_Respectfully, Fleet Master, our sensors indicate no such interference._"

"Then why cannot we reach them?" Entra snapped, growing impatient, "Have they simply vanished?"

"_It…it would appear so, Fleet Master._"

Entra froze halfway through the redressing process. Vanished? The incoming fleet consisted primarily of relief personnel and materials necessary for re-arming the turian force, but it was nonetheless well guarded. There wasn't a pirate or warlord in existence that could take on such a group.

"Expand sensor range. Keep trying to reestablish contact," Entra ordered, finishing his paused action and beginning his trek to the bridge, "I'll be there shortly. Notify me of any new developments."

* * *

><p>"<em>Preparing to disengage FTL drive. Confirm orders, admiral?<em>"

"Confirmed. Drescher to all units: divert reserve capacitors to guns and forward shields. I want us ready to open fire as soon as he exit FTL. Confirm."

"Istanbul, _confirmed_."

"Moscow, _confirmed_."

"Tombstone, _confirmed_."

"Tripoli, _confirmed_."

"Detroit, _confirmed_."

"Zurich,_ confirmed_."

"Corfu,_ confirmed_."

"Glasgow_, confirmed._"

"Trenton, _confirmed_."

"Prague_, confirmed_."

"Vesuvius, _confirmed_."

"Everest_, confirmed._"

"_Wolfpack, all present and accounted for._"

"Good," Admiral Kastanie Drescher leaned forward in her command couch, "Engage on my mark."

* * *

><p>"<em>Fleet Master! Contacts, coming from-<em>"

From his command console, Fleet Master Entra Shadoon's eyes widened at the sight of the silent detonation of one of his cruisers. Immediately, he spread his hands over the controls and reports began to pour in from his staff and other vessels alike.

"_Hostile warships, consistent with human models._"

"_Six, seven…more ships appearing, Fleet Master. Where are they coming from?_"

"Return fire immediately," Entra ordered, "They are the flails of a dying beast. We can..."

He watched as his fleet began to trade fire with the ships falling out of lightspeed travel frighteningly close to their formation. He was no stranger to combat between spacecraft, even among forces of roughly equal strength, but two new arrivals froze the words in his mouth. Comm chatter died to a whisper, and it seemed for a moment that even the human ships let up their fire.

The various spacefaring races of the galaxy fielded countless models of ships, with equally innumerable variations of appearance. But there was one shape that was universal, and it was unmistakable here.

"The humans have dreadnaughts…" Entra murmured, awe overriding any sense of fear or dread they might have induced. Both ships dwarfed even the largest other vessels in either fleet, and even without intimate familiarity with human weaponry, Entra could see that they were no worse equipped than any other race's dreadnaught.

* * *

><p>"Enemy fleet in sight. Confirm orders, Admiral?"<p>

"No mercy, lieutenant. Fire at will."

* * *

><p>Even amidst the storm of klaxons and shouts of junior officers, the broadsides of both human dreadnaughts glowed emerald and fired with unnerving silence. The vacuum of space took away the banshee wail of priming and the thunderclap of discharge. The effects were no less devastating, and just as powerful as Entra had feared from their size.<p>

The _Final Reckoning_ was a light cruiser, not meant to face concentrated fire from a destroyer-class ship, much less a dreadnaught. Two emerald lances cut the ship in two as surely as if it had been cut by the blade of a god.

The _Unification_ fared better. It had managed to begin its own salvo, but the ion beams cut a swath through the missiles even as they launched. The middleweight cruiser's engines were struck on the port side, tearing away the left corner of the ship. It was still active, but it would need to reposition itself using its wounded propulsion system if it wanted to line up more shots.

The third and final ship hit by the initial salvo was the _Rotham_. It was a destroyer, like Entra's _Justice Eternal_, but held a special place in the turian fleet. Rotham had been one of the turian worlds that fell victim to the krogan asteroid attacks, and one of the three that was utterly destroyed as a result. The destruction of Rotham, Serra, and Hulkan had accomplished the opposite of what the rebellious krogan had sought. Instead of cowing the Hierarchy into surrender, it steeled their resolve to the point that the two powers would have fought to the last soldier had it not been for the salarian genophage.

It was the turning point of the unexpected attack, and sealed the fates of every soldier, officer, and crewman in the orbit of Shanxi. The _Rotham_ was the heaviest of the three ships, but much of its defenses lay in its powerful kinetic barriers. There was barely a ripple of orange as the dreadnaught-grade ion beams pierced the ship.

Entra's voice caught in his throat as the _Rotham _shuddered under two direct hits, and was only dislodged by the impact of the third. It cored the ship from its uppermost decks to its underbelly, leaving a ragged hole in the hull. Worse, it had been in the process of firing its engines to respond to the new threat, and the gutting of its hull made that its death sentence.

Slowly and terribly, what little that still held the ship together broke, and the _Rotham_'s movement tore itself nearly in two. It seemed almost merciful that another beam, alongside multiple smaller equivalents from the other human ships, erased the dying ship from existence.

"Fleet Master Shadoon to all vessels," Entra keyed open the general frequency. It might not have been the most secure channel, but that was an almost laughable concern at this point. If the humans had cracked their low-encryption channels and somehow deciphered their tongue, let them hear them. Entra knew there was little time, and kept his words brief.

"Reduce power to barriers and divert all power to engines and weapons. All available vessels, forward with me."

The Hierarchy military did not fail, even in the face of the unexpected arrival of such powerful forces. The dreadnaughts were recharging their cannons, and the rest of the human fleet was opening fire. There was not a commander in the turian fleet who didn't know that their odds of survival were virtually nonexistent, but as the _Justice Eternal_'s engines flared, the rest followed suit.

"These are the first shots of a war whose scale we could not have known. Our brothers and sisters will finish what we have begun, but this is our final battle. Join me-"

The _Justice Eternal_ shook as an ion blast skimmed its upper decks. Entra would have normally delegated crew to respond to the damage, but it would have been pointless. They were gaining speed, even if another ship was annihilated by multiple ion beams.

"Forward, sons of Palaven! Show them the strength of the Hierarchy!"

* * *

><p><strong>Welcome, citizen! Access historical overview? YN**

**Please enter initial date: February + 2158**

**Loading...please wait...**

**February 4, 2158: Admiral Kastanie Drescher and the Second Fleet arrives in vicinity of Shanxi, engaging the orbiting turian fleet and inflicting immediate casualties. Hierarchy Fleet Master Entra Shadoon launches a swift couterattack, terminating only with the destruction of the last turian vessel. **

**Three GDI vessels are damaged, including the Rhodes-class dreadnaught _Vesuvius_. All have since been returned to service, save for the _GDS Tripoli_ which was destroyed. **

**The turian fleet under Shadoon is destroyed. Disclosed Hierarchy records indicate no known survivors from the battle. **

**February 5, 2158: The show of force in space fails to move the turian soldiers planetside, and the Hierarchy troops steels themselves against inevitable attack. Their positions near population centers and surrendered GDI garrisons leave the Second Fleet unable to simply annihilate them from orbit, and a reclamation force is dispatched. **

**February 6, 2158: The physical deployment of troops from orbit goes without incident. The turian troops were not equipped with any weapons that could reliably contest the GDI troop carriers save for anti-air batteries and interceptors, but neither could move into positions without exposing themselves to orbital fire. **

**February 8, 2158: The reclamation force engages the invaders. For close to a week, the turian troops force GDI to a standstill. The soldiers are well-supplied and are no longer unfamiliar with battling GDI forces. Coupled with their renown bravery and battle prowess, Hierarchy General Torq Artanis organizes a strong, planet-spanning defense against the combined power of three Marine battalions, two Heavy Infantry reinforced companies, and four Armored companies. **

**February 16, 2158: Aided by homing beacons set by infiltrating Commandos, the 105th Heavy Infantry (see doc: _The 105__th__: Descent of the Firebrands_) land via drop pods inside the stiff defenses of Shanxi's capitol. Even with the beacons, landing inside the city was a dangerous maneuver that leaves fifty-seven of the two hundred and fifty Zone troopers dead or too injured to fight. The 105th suffers severe losses in the subsequent fighting, but draws away enough of the turian defenders to allow the main GDI force to break into the city. **

**Important note: Events outside your chosen scope are marked as 'critical' for full historical context. Expand scope? Y/N**

**Loading…please wait…**

**February 19th, 2158: The Council of Directors is contacted by an alien governing body, the Citadel Council, which includes races beyond the Turian Hierarchy. The Council claims no hand in the initial attack against GDI ships and the subsequent invasion, and pleads for a mutual ceasefire before both GDI and Hierarchy can throw their full strength into the blossoming war. **

**February 20th, 2158: Director-General James Garcia orders GDI forces on Shanxi to cease their purge of the colony, declaring Initiative victory and simultaneously announcing the Council's existence to humanity at large. Ground forces on both sides cease combat almost immediately, owed in part to Hierarchy General Torq Artanis receiving orders to stand down and prepare his men for disarmament and departure from Shanxi. **

**February 22st, 2158: General Torq Artanis is wounded while aboard the last troopship off Shanxi, ultimately costing him an arm. Accusations of an InOps assassination attempt would emerge in later weeks, but evidence suggested the actions of unidentified rogue demolition experts. **

**Februaaaaaaaaaaaaaa/-/**

**/-/UNAUTHORIZED USER DETECTED/**

**/-/SECURITY SYSTEMS EN/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/FIREWALLS/-/OFFLINE**

**/-/KEYSTROKE LOGGER/-/OFFLINE**

**/-/EXTRANET CONNECTION/-/LOST**

**/-/REBOOTING FROM ARCHIVE/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/**

**/-/REBOOT FAILED/-/SHUTTING DOWN/-/**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Eagle's Fall: A History of the Shanxi Invasion <em>(excerpt)**

_**Prof. Paul Muldoon**_

_The world was reclaimed, but the scars of Shanxi reached much further than the landscape itself. Humanity had known from its encounters with the Scrin that the galaxy held as many dangers as wonders, but the blame for subsequent strained relations between the Initiative and the Citadel Council can be attributed to the hasty actions of the Turian Hierarchy. _

_Though the name of Torq Artanis might draw admiration and hatred in equal measure in Initiative space, his 'battlefield acquisitions' paved the way for many an innovation in the Hierarchy military. Declassified InOps reports highlight the similarities that the turian 'Steelclaw' series has between 'Raider'-variant Zone Armor and the Wolverine Mk. III mechanized walker. _

_Such advances came at the cost of human/alien relations, however. The stigma attached to the name of General James Williams is enough to show the Initiative animosity towards the alien incursion, and many hold that the events on Shanxi made humanity's refusal to join the Citadel races under the Council a foregone conclusion. Issues such as the rejection of the Treaty of Firaxen and the tight regulation of tiberium were mere indicators of the existing mistrust between humans and aliens. _

_In truth, the Initiative frightened the Council in much the same way the krogan had. It represented a powerful force outside their control that they were fortunate enough to avoid outright war against through diplomacy. Given the Council's hardline stance on such issues as operation of mass relay, trading of arms, and use of artificial intelligence, it is almost unheard of for an entity as independent of their control as the Initiative to do all those and more while not only avoiding war with the Council, but possessing their own embassy within the Citadel. _

_To act in haste is to repent in leisure, as they say. Time will tell what further chaos the echoes of Shanxi will bring on the galaxy, and should there be another such conflict, neither the Initiative nor the Council will be inclined to view it as an act of eager ignorance to be resolved off the battlefield. _

* * *

><p><em><em>**Well, folks, that's _Eagle's Fall_. Thanks to everyone who helped me along the way, even if just by dropping a review. And a special thanks to Peptuck for acknowledging this story in ways I couldn't have possibly anticipated. I wouldn't have written this without first having read _Renegade_, and I'm overjoyed to be considered canon within that universe. **

**Give me your final thoughts, and if all goes according to plan, I'll have the start of a Verge War story posted in the near-ish future.  
><strong>


End file.
